


Don't You Ever Let Me Go

by skyfallat221b



Series: Barton's Background [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Circus of Crime - Freeform, Easter Eggs, Hydra, Pre-Canon, triskelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfallat221b/pseuds/skyfallat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ABANDONED: I will probably never finish this fic, I'm sorry. If you start reading it, though, I hope you enjoy <3</p><p>Clint Barton's life has always been some sort of mess. When he gets in trouble with the circus and when SHIELD gets interested in his special skill set, things get very difficult for him. Especially when he's just 20 years old and as wild as ever.<br/>Subplots include Jessica Drew, Barney Barton, and most importantly, the secret rise of HYDRA within SHIELD hierarchy (with Alexander Pierce, Brock Rumlow and Peggy Carter).</p><p>Sequel to Remember, I Loved You, though you don't have to have read it to understand this fic!<br/>(Updates on Sundays).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melinda May - Early March 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :')  
> This is the sequel to my 2014 NaNoWriMo Remember, I Loved You. Some of you might remember that I was looking into writing more of that story, and lo and behold, here it is! I am still currently writing it (duh), but I've already got about 12k pinned down. (That's the 3 first chapters). I'll update this every Sunday (as much as I can with wifi availabilities and such).
> 
> I hope you'll like it so far, lots of new characters, name drops, cameos and stuff. I've had a lot of fun with this! :)

“So, you're saying this guy just vanished?”

Looking around her, the senior agent met Fury's gaze. The meeting had been called in as soon as news about their young target had reached them: he'd disappeared into thin air. They had been tailing him, this young orphaned boy from Iowa, ever since he'd started getting in with the wrong crowd, and now he had seemingly disappeared from their radar. Just like that.

SHIELD had sent Coulson in to assess the situation, a couple of years ago, but he hadn't established contact with the boy at the time. He had been deemed 'too young' to be taken in. That, and probably 'too wild'. Sure, he would have made an incredible asset, but with a background like his...

There had been talks that he might be so hostile to any sort of government agency because of his background in Orphan Homes and the system, that it was a dead end to go after him.

“His tail, Agent Tyler made contact at oh-eight hundred hours this morning, saying that the asset has disappeared from the premises.”

Melinda raised her eyebrow, unimpressed by the development. They had been tailing young Clinton Francis Barton ever since he had shot his own brother, Charles Bernard Barton, in the shoulder. There had been the technicality of his mentor, circus artist Buck Chisholm, who'd shot Clint back. They weren't sure about the motive or the why (as far as they had known, Charles – also known as Barney – had gone over to the right side by joining the army and the Federal Bureau of Investigation). It had probably got something to do with the blood bond between the two orphans.

Hearing Coulson shuffle the file they had all been given two weeks prior, Melinda shifted her gaze towards Agent Maria Hill. She was Fury's right hand and the one to call most of the shots when the Director was out. The file had been deemed for their eyes only, and any and all agents of SHIELD who had needed to be included in on the case – like Agent Tyler – had only been briefed on the strict necessary: highly skilled young archer, orphan, comes from the circus, has been missing since they were teenagers and ran away from their orphan home.

“Anyone made contact with the brother yet?” Hill asked, as she pulled the file on Barney out from beneath Clint's. 5 years older, more rough, more angry, it seemed, but one hell of an efficient agent. Of course, the FBI had bared its teeth when SHIELD had asked for the file (why were they investigating one of their agents?), but they had complied when they'd told them what they already knew.

Coulson, Melinda knew, had gone to the Orphan's home, and talked to some of the other kids he had managed to track down from there. They all had the same story to tell, that Clint had an amazing ability to aim and throw, and that him and his brother had been inseperable. He'd asked around town in Waverly, Iowa, to get a feeling as to what had chased the children away from it, but when he'd come home with a tale of a drunk father and a very much in love mother, they had all understood.

Melinda was only a couple of years older than Clint, and she could sort of understand the struggles he had gone through as a child. (Not even mentioning his medical file, which showed that he had almost lost his hearing during one of his father's beating sessions. Thankfully, it seemed that he had gotten his hearing back naturally.)

“No, Barney's getting his ass covered by his bosses, we can't talk to him unless he agrees to a private conversation. He knows we've already been after his brother, probably someone at the Bureau who's monitoring SHIELD activity too,” Fury replied, his brow furrowed. Melinda frowned at this new development.

“Shouldn't we be able to contact him without making it obvious we're after his brother? Some sort of inter-agency deal should be possible, right?” she asked, trying to catch Fury's gaze, which he averted by looking straight at Coulson.

“This kid has just turned 19 years old, and he's got a bad shoulder because of an arrow. I want him found as soon as possible, and I want him brought in. He can become a major asset to this organisation if we can just get him convinced of the good he would do.” When Fury used that voice, it meant he was dead serious about the subject. Melinda didn't know – maybe it was a bad idea. The kid had never finished any sort of high school, he didn't even have his G.E.Ds like his brother, she didn't even know if he was able to read. Period. (Though, she doubted it with all the intel they'd gathered this far. But he seemed to be wild and unable to tame from what she had heard too, with a tendency to throw punches before asking the questions).

“Sir, with respect, do you think it's a good idea to bring him in?” she interjected, as she saw Maria nod. “We don't know the kid's abilities other than his incredible physical skillset, and we don't even know if he would be inclined positively to work with us. Are you sure this isn't a dead end?”

Maria frowned, as she closed Barney's file with a smack on the table, and raised her eyes towards her. “Agent May's got a point, sir. We don't know what his intellectual skillset is, except knowing where to aim and how hard to pull the string. How do we know he'll be able to call the shots if it comes down to it?”

Melinda saw Fury and Coulson exchange a glance, before Fury shifted around and turned on a screen behind him. They grey snow like picture slowly pixelized into an image of Buck Chisholm, Clint's previous mentor turned crook and murder suspect.

“Is this live?” Melinda asked, as she rose from her seat, to get a closer look at the image.

“Yes,” Fury started, before turning back to face them all. “We caught Chisholm yesterday night, and he's had some very interesting things to tell us, after we figured out which buttons to push.”

Coulson seemed to have known about this all along, and right now, Melinda secretly hated him for it. However, she kept that for herself, as she watched the feed. Fury pushed another button, and started speaking – she deduced it was to a microphone inside the room.

“Mister Chisholm, please tell us what you know about your previous circus recruit. Same as you told me earlier today.”

She saw the man raise his eyes to where the sound was coming from, and she realized he looked more tired than he had before, in some of the pictures they had snapped of him and Clint preparing their coup on the mansion where things had gone wrong. He looked like he had lost a couple of pounds.

“Clint's a good kid, sir,” he started, and she was surprised to hear his voice, tinted with that typical accent she knew folk from the Midwest shared. “He's cleverer than he looks, even Barney didn't know that – he's got skills. Maths, physics, he understands everything.” He paused, and Melinda frowned, her gaze moving towards Fury before moving back to the screen. The former circus artist continued.

“He doesn't know the formulas they teach in school, but his _logic_ , sir. That kid's unbeatable if he sets his mind to it.” Then, he cracked a smile, as if he knew all too well that they were looking for Clint, and Melinda understood that he knew too, why he was here. “You lost 'im, didn't you?”

Fury pressed on one button again, and the screen went black. He eyed them all – Hill, Coulson and herself – somberly, before looking down. “This kid, right here, is more than just a weapon if we can get our hands on him. All the intel we have shows us that he is as capable, if not more, than all the Agents graduating from the Academy.”

Melinda felt herself relieved and excited at the same time. This was different. Instead of going through all the recent graduates, going headhunting – almost literally – felt like something new and something she wanted to be a part of. She guessed Fury had sensed it when he had asked her to join in on the Hawkeye Project, as it was being called, a silly hint to his performing name.

“Clint Barton might not have any degree to put on his CV, but he's got enough skills to put any of us back several years in marksmanship and tactical planning. Chisholm up there,” Fury motioned to the screen which had turned dark again, “knows this and he's accepted to cooperate with us if we give him the medical attention he needs.”

Coulson's head jerked upright, and this time it was Hill that seemed unsurprised by the new development – Fury had the habit to only tell certain things to certain Agents, so that nobody except himself knew all of the details of a mission. It was a clever strategy, she had to give him that.

“Buck Chisholm's been diagnosed with cancer, and he needs the help as fast as he can,” Hill started, and Melinda arched her eyebrow. Ah, now she got why the former thief and carnival artist had decided to cooperate. They get better healthcare in jail than they do under the circus tent. “He's agreed to help us find his former pupil in exchange for our services. If we can get Barney Barton's attention and his good graces, we might be able to pin down Clint's location, although it's probably he's made it out of the country somehow.”

Lowering her head, Melinda turned one of the pages on Clint's file, before speaking up, reading from the file as she remembered it: “Can't we ask this Jacques DuQuesne for assistance too?” she asked, and she saw Hill shake her head as Fury said no.

“He's been in the wind for too long, and for all we know he's gone back to Europe where he came from originally. Our contacts at MI-6 lost his track when he crossed into the Shenghen zone with the help of fellow Frenchman Georges Batroc, and disappeared from there.”

Nodding, Melinda sighed. “So we have no clue where a 19 year old kid with a shoulder injury is hiding.”

Shaking his head, Coulson agreed. “He's learnt the circus tricks well in his time there, and we think that he may be hiding with another circus than Carson's or the Circus of Crime. Carnies are very protective of each other, and if he's found some contact or some former friends or allies to lay low with, we might not know until he's moved on to another circus.”

“But isn't his act supposed to be archery and knife throwing? I thought we had a word out to any new performing archers or knife throwers in the circus world,” Hill stated, but was immediately shot down by Coulson.

“He can work in the shadows of the circus without performing, or he might take on the costume of someone else to hide himself. He knows how to raise the tent and he knows how to mimic others perfectly, I've seen him do it myself.” Coulson paused, before looking up at Fury who acquiesced. “That's why we're so interested in him, he possesses skills we could never imagine of teaching a recruit from the Academy. He would be an incredible asset, not only because of his, as we've pointed out before, physical abilities, but also because of his knowledge and his acting capacities.”

“So what can we do next?”

* * *

_That_ hadn't exactly been what she had in mind. Going from circus to circus, to try and see if any of the artists or other carnie folk would be willing to give up one of their own, that hadn't been what she had meant.

Although it had been judged the most appropriate response. Melinda had stated that it might spook Clint even further – if word reached him that different State Agents were looking for him, he might disappear even further into the world of Carnivals and Circuses, but SHIELD was running low on ressources to catch him. And moreso, it was the pride of the agency that had been hurt: being eluded by a 19 year old kid with no educational degree was bad enough. They needed him found.

She'd gone through two circuses already, and she'd understood that they wouldn't give up one of their own. Of course, all of them had heard of the Amazing Hawkeye – who hadn't? - but none of them knew if he was nearby, or if he was far away. Someone had even thought that he was dead, last he'd heard of him, and that it was a real shame because 'that kid could do such amazing things when given the opportunity to.'

Melinda had sat the man down – Bryan was his name, and he was now working with an equestrian show, but he had been a part of Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders for a long time.

“Clint's a good kid, you know,” he'd said, as she had invited him for coffee in town. Get him isolated from the other carnies, it might make him open up easier. “He came into the circus when he was just a little kid, and he just impressed all of us by throwing a stone into the night like it was nothing. DuQuesne was furious at first, but then he saw the opportunity.”

Bryan had nodded, before going on, as Melinda wrote it down. In cyrillic. Just in case someone was looking over her shoulder somehow.

“The kid's got scars all over his body from Jack's teaching, and Buck wasn't too kind with him either, but man, was it worth it. You ever see anyone hit a bullseye from over a hundred feet away?” As she nodded, he smiled back at her.

“You see anyone hit a bullseye from over a hundred feet away while _blindfolded_?” He laughed, before going on for a little while, but none of his ramblings – although representing new intel on Clint – gave any sort of clue as to where he was hiding.

Clint had gone into hiding, and it seemed like he wouldn't come out of it until he wanted to be found. And, as she knew, the strange world of freaks and carnies would let it be known that he was ready to come out.

SHIELD had appointed a team of researchers to look into the social circles and constructions in circus life, and it had turned out that they could get word across the country faster than official courriers could. All carnivals knew what was going on and who was the hottest act in this or that field. But, as soon as she or Coulson mentioned the Barton name, none of them knew anything of value. Not even the so called psychics or fortune tellers she asked and poked at.

Melinda had gone back to HQ empty handed, and found Coulson as empty handed as her. It felt like a personal failure as much as a team failure, and she knew that they were going to have to figure out some sort of new way to get a hold of the kid. How long would he be able to hide? Not indefinitely, right?

Hill hadn't found anything new, and they'd decided to bring in some more agents to help with the search – maybe young heads like Barbara Morse would have more success than her and Coulson.

She could hide herself better. Blend into the crowd. If she went with some friends or even on her own, pretending to have a good time, and started asking around, they thought that maybe she would be able to get some information out of the artists. They all knew that the power of the flesh was stronger than the power of the mind when it came to certain things.

“You gotta find any new trail, any fresh prints he left on his way out,” Coulson had briefed her. Melinda had been there to oversee the briefing, in case Coulson missed anything, but as always, he'd been spotless. “This kid is barely two years younger than you, but he is ten times as resourceful. And he's got an entire society of artists with him, so for the love of everything you like, do not spook him or break from your cover. They've got me and Agent May pinned down – most of them knew exactly who we were before we even started asking questions – so don't let them get on your tracks.”

She'd watched young Barbara go through the file with a curious look on her eyes. “So why do we want the kid anyway?” she'd asked, and Melinda had been more than happy to find the video they'd managed to get from a Californian family's holiday through Iowa, of a certain Clint Barton's performance with Carson. He had been fifteen years old at the time.

Melinda had seen the tape before. Many times. If she didn't know the origins of the tape and knew that it hadn't been tampered with, she wouldn't really have believed it. So, she watched the young agent's face as she watched too, and realized that the man they were after could turn out to be incredibly dangerous, should he choose to stop hiding and take action against her.

“If you find anything regarding the target, you are requested to report back immediately. If you find the target and manage to pin him down in one location, you are requested to report back immediately. If you do not find anything regarding the target, you are also requested to report back immediately. Are we understood?” Melinda would have smiled at Coulson using his dad voice – he often did that when dealing with newly graduated agents. But it worked quite well on them, and the young Agent nodded.

“Yes sir,” she said as she stood up, to exit the room and go out into the world to find this elusive creature of the underworld.

Melinda walked up to Coulson and crossed her arms against her chest. “How long you think she'll hold before she makes contact to tell us she can't find him?” she asked, and Coulson took a deep breath, before rubbing his temple.

“I don't know what we're doing wrong. We've got everything out to find the kid, and we're supposed to be the leading intelligence agency in the world. How come we find world terrorists easier than a kid with a bow?” he asked, as he turned off the computer they had been working with during the briefing.

Cracking a smile, Melinda took the files the junior agent had left behind and went to put them through the file shredder. “Maybe it's easier to just let him come to us, if we get something he wants,” she stated, as she saw Coulson turn his head to look at her.

“We already have Chisholm-”

“I didn't mean him. I meant his brother Barney. I'm sure he knows where his kid brother is, he just doesn't want us to know. And the Bureau is covering for him, because he's a good Agent, just as SHIELD would cover for you if anything came up.” Melinda looked up from the paper shredder.

“We need to get a new piece into the game, or he's not going to come out from his rabbit hole. He's been raised to avoid agents, officers and other goverment forces, if he wants to hide for the rest of his life he will be able to.” She paused, as the last piece of paper fell into the metallic container beneath the shredder.

“I hardly see us walking around these offices in thirty years, thinking back to that time a barely twenty year old kid kept us from finding him,” she finished off, grabbing one of the matches on the side of the shredder and lighting it on the side of the metallic container, throwing it down into it. Burn all evidence. Shredded papers were too dangerous to have lying around, and ash was a much more resilient way to keep secrets secret.

“Get Fury to pull on some higher threads. We know the FBI will accept to hand over Barney if the heads of SHIELD gets involved,” Melinda muttered, as low as possible, so only Coulson could hear. Even though they were alone in the room.

“Are you _mad_? Fury'll never ask Carter or Pierce to get in on this case.” Coulson frowned, worrying lines appearing around his eyes.

“You might be mistaken about how much he wants this kid, Phil,” she said, as if hitting the nail one last final time, as she prepared to walk out of the room. “I'm sure that if he wants Hawkeye enough, he will get him. It's just a matter of time before he involves the right pieces on the chessboard.” She smiled back at him, turning around and taking her things, exiting the room, as she left Coulson behind.

* * *

Sitting on the chair, facing the wall she had minutiously created with threads and pictures, she took a deep breath. All of the threads led back to the same spot – a picture of young Clint Barton in his circus gear, topped with a question mark.

She had pinned down other key figures in the kid's life – his father, his mother, among other things – even Barney had his own colored threads, she had pinned down Chisholm's last actions, and she had created a timeline of the last two weeks before Clint's disappearance.

SHIELD had been supposed to make contact with him on his next-to-last day in the hospital after his shoulder injury, but he had decided to disappear earlier than that, leaving the hospital staff both worried and annoyed. Of course, SHIELD had stepped in to settle the medical bills. She had been looking at the timeline, day by day, to try and figure out who or what had spooked the kid.

Had there even been a reason? Or had he just decided to leave, because that always worked best? Barney had been taken in by the FBI almost as soon as he was able to walk again, covered by their own agents and security, and there had been a large gap in the few hours where Clint had disappeared. Had Barney helped him get out? If so, why was he covering his younger brother's tracks? (Not counting the murder charges pending on him if they pinned down the deaths of some of the security agents at the mansion).

As far as Melinda knew, this was a mess. It was a big mess, and SHIELD was currently rowing through the unknown, trying to get their hands on this potential asset – but also potential threat. She'd heard Fury and Hill talk about neutralizing Clint if he refused to join them, for if he decided to join another organized crime unit like the Circus of Crime, he would be able to do so much damage.

“Where are you hiding, kid?” she asked the wall, as if it would suddenly spit out the answer to her question. They had gone through some of the major circuses, but none of them had allowed them backstage, behind the curtains where everything interesting happened.

She knew, and SHIELD knew, that word had gone around the world of performing arts that Clint's head was dangling on the edge of a wanted poster. But, she had to admit, that the carnival folks knew how to keep themselves out of trouble and showed so much support to each other, that you would have thought they'd hate each other more.

But no. Clint remained a needle in a haystack, and he would remain that way until they found the magnet to pull him out. And, as far as she knew, Barney Barton would be the pressure point. They just needed to get their hands on him, and then Clint would accept to join them. Or at least grant them an interview.

All in all, she couldn't believe the kid was only 19 years old. It was almost as if he was a messy creature from the underground, infinitely precious and important to their future plans. Somewhere, the echo of the Black Widow program rung in her ears, something that she had read in the old SSR archives when she had first joined SHIELD. Young kids making better agents than they ever would.

It looked like Clint Barton would become one of those most wanted. Dead or alive, if things didn't develop into a better future for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how did you like it? Please, please, please let me know! I'm dying to know how Melinda is, I've barely ever watched Agents of Shield and I'm afraid my characterization sucks.  
> Next chapter will be from another character's point of view, and I'm very impatient to hear what you think of it :)
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Passages that made you happy, unhappy, sad, laugh, etc.  
> Happy Sunday everyone! :)


	2. Nick Fury - Mid-April 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm absolutely sure that this Barton kid there, he will turn out to be one of the best agents SHIELD has ever had the pleasure to have in their employment. With the proper training and the proper guidance, he will be able to become an asset as valuabe as myself.” It wasn't often that Nick Fury had to defend his decisions to a higher order or higher ranking officer, but this was one of them. And, as soon as he'd read the file on Clint Barton, he had felt that the kid would turn out to be the precious gemstone they were looking for. Or at least, that he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited for this!  
> I don't expect the fic to get much traffic, since RILY didn't, but I don't really care, I enjoy writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Writing Nick Fury was a bit of a challenge, and I hope I managed to not let you down :)  
> There are some other characters in there that you'll like, I hope. Let's play a can you find all the Easter Eggs? ;)
> 
> Enjoy it!

Ever since word had reached SHIELD of an amazing archer and knife thrower running the circus tracks, Nick had known that the kid would represent an incredible asset if he were ever to be brought in.

Not only because if trained correctly, this young Clint Barton would grow to become the greatest marksman in the world, but also possibly the best and most trustworthy agents of all: with his background, it seemed like Clint was a good judge of character, even though he had made some bad choices in life.

And, if SHIELD didn't pull him from those choices, he would continue down a life of crime that would mean his termination. If Nick wanted to avoid anything, that was it. And so, when Melinda May had brought word that sending in Bobbi Morse, one of their finest agents, in to gather intel on the kid, had ended in utter and complete failure, Fury had to begin thinking of another approach.

Of course, there was the inevitable question of bringing in the King and Queen of this chess board – Peggy Carter and Alexander Pierce – but that would mean compromising his idea. If he were to tell them why he wanted an expert marksman, and why he wanted this agent to become something special – a leader and more than that, for a team that he wished to create – then they might grow too curious. Maybe Peggy Carter would understand his wishes, but he was more cautious towards Alexander Pierce.

Pierce always had been the political one of them, whereas Carter would have followed her heart and the right way, even if it meant making some wrong political choices.

But, in the end, after enough discussions back and forth with Maria Hill, his trusted advisor, he decided to go for it. Without breaking through to the FBI and bringing in Barney Barton, this Clint Barton's older brother, there was going to be absolutely no way of bringing the kid in either. If anyone knew where to find him, it would be the older sibling. He was absolutely sure of it.

So, when Nick decided to bring in some of the higher chess pieces, it wasn't Pierce's door he knocked on. It was a busy Peggy Carter, still mourning over the loss of Howard and Maria Stark in that dreadful car crash that had rendered their son, Anthony Stark, orphan and heir of a kingdom of riches.

“Miss Carter, ma'am,” Nick said, as he heard her accept him into her office. When he pushed the door, he saw files scattered across her desk, the results of tests on the cosmic cube one of them.

“Director Fury,” her voice replied, and he cracked a smile as he saw her light up. She too didn't appreciate Pierce as much as him, and he knew all too well what it meant to be a woman in a man's world. He'd witnessed it first hand. _Especially_ a world of spies. “What can I do for you? It's been a while since you knocked on my door, and last time it was to ask a favor.”

A light chuckle escaped Nick's lips as he stretched his back, trying to look presentable to this woman who had helped Stark found modern day SHIELD, this woman who had known Captain America himself, and this woman who had treaded against all of the prejudice the world had thrown at her.

“Well, you're not wrong,” he started, before pulling out the file on Clint Barton – aka Hawkeye – and handing it to her. As he waited for her to take the file, he continued, “I need your view on something.”

As she took the file from his hands and sat down at the edge of the table, he went on. “I've been tracking this young kid from Iowa for a couple of years now, and he's vanished. As you can see on the file, he's got an incredible skillset that we want. Well, actually that _I_ want,” he corrected, before moving on, “We've reached a dead end, because he has disappeared from the surface of the Earth, and the only person who might be able to get him out of hiding is his brother, Barney Barton.”

Nick paused, letting her take in the information, as she shuffled through some of the pages, some of the pictures of young Clint Barton. His personal data – height, weight, the last time they had managed to estimate it, his skills, his probable IQ. Everything was in there, all they needed was to actually get their hands on him to make sure and verify it all.

“And what seems to be the problem to getting to this, Charles Bernard Barton?” she asked him, as she read the paragraph on Clint's family. There wasn't much information in there – other than Barney inheriting the family farm because lack of kin, and the fact that he had decided to set it up again after getting his job with the FBI, there was nothing.

“He's an FBI agent, ma'am, and the Federal Bureau doesn't want us to get near him. That is, unless someone _important_ asks them. Someone like you.”

Better be as precise as possible, Fury thought, and he cocked his head in her direction, to emphazise even further.

“Why not ask Pierce? He seems to be the one pushing to more inter-agency cooperation?” she said, looking up from the file. She was still as efficient as ever, Nick had to admit it.

“I'm afraid that Pierce might look at it the wrong way and estimate it to be a loss of resources. Look elsewhere for an expert marksman – we have other ongoing operations to look out for those, which is where we got the first look on this Clint Barton kid. But the others – one of them calling himself Bullseye, and another one, Brock Rumlow – don't seem to have the same stamina as this kid right there.” Fury paused yet again, before taking the time to think about what he was going to say.

“Miss Carter, I'm absolutely sure that this Barton kid there, he will turn out to be one of the best agents SHIELD has ever had the pleasure to have in their employment. With the proper training and the proper guidance, he will be able to become an asset as valuabe as myself.” It wasn't often that he had to defend his decisions to a higher order or higher ranking officer, but this was one of them. And, as soon as he'd read the file on Clint Barton, he had felt that the kid would turn out to be the precious gemstone they were looking for. Or at least, that _he_ was looking for.

“You know it all too well, we need Agents who are more than soldiers, ready to take orders. We need Agents who are able to decide whether the mission we give them is the right one or not – and to decide when to question it. You've witnessed it yourself, our enemies are growing stronger and we need to start looking elsewhere than the Academy for proper Agents,” Fury kept on going, as he watched Carter's eyes go back and forth to the picture on the wall behind him where he knew she kept a portrait of Steve Rogers, the original Captain America.

“We can't match up with their powers – the KGB has words out on an unknown asset, as fickle as a ghost, he's supposedly killed several times in the past – including JFK even though that hasn't been confirmed yet – and of the Black Widow program, the same one you ran into when you went into Russia with the Howling Commandos during your time in the field. And that's just the Russians,” he went on, ignoring all his usual protocols – he wasn't used to talking this much, but if he needed to convince her of the importance of this player, he had to go all in. He would have nothing more to bluff with if she decided to decline him, but he knew that Peggy Carter would listen to him.

“If we look at the Germans, at the terrorist movements in the East, with the Ten Rings moving together, we might soon become irrelevant in a world where secret intelligence has been outmatched by special agents. We need to start setting up a team, much like the one Erskine worked on, but with agents capable of performing different tasks, at different times. And I believe, that as long as Captain America remains Missing In Action, this Clint Barton kid might prove to be the first chess piece on a new playing board.”

Taking in a deep breath, Nick watched her face, as she had stopped reading the lines in the file, in favor of listening to his gospel. He wasn't sure – she was very good at keeping her face stern, and until she spoke, he had no idea if he had been heard or not.

“So you want me to speak to the Director of the FBI and see if we can gain access to their agent Barney Barton and get to know if he has any intel on this, as you put it mildly, kid?”

Well, when she put it like that, it didn't sound like much, but he nodded anyway. “Yes ma'am.”

“Well then, seems like I have a phonecall to make.”

Nick wouldn't exactly have put it as a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders, but he felt the relief flood over him as he saw her smile back at him, handing him the file on Clint Barton. Frowning, he hesitated to taking it back from her. “Don't you want to keep it?” he questioned, as she moved back to her desk, moving the papers on the cosmic cube to the side.

“No, I've seen and heard all I need to know about this kid, I won't need to know more. I trust your judgement to be impeccable, and if you deem this young boy worthy of resources and effort, then I will do my part in getting him back to the flock,” she replied, looking up to him, a mischievious glint in her eyes. “I trust your word, Nick, and if you need me to do this for you, then I will be more than happy to.”

Nodding, he knew a cue when he got one. “I'll let you carry on, then,” he stated, as they both greeted each other with a nod, and he exited, Clint Barton's file in his hand.

As soon as he was out of the room, he took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. He had never spoken with such conviction about Clint Barton before, but he was sure that he was worth it – he seemed to be a genuinely good boy. There was something about the kid that had made Nick stick to him, and nothing would ever make him bulge. Sure, they had made contact with Rumlow, and he had agreed to join SHIELD, but he still wanted Barton more. If Peggy Carter could get access to Barney Barton with a phonecall, he knew most of his troubles would be over.

Walking back to his office, he pondered over the recent developments in the world close to SHIELD – Stark Enterprises had lost their head and gained a new one in Obadiah Stane who would watch over Howard Stark's inheritance until the son and heir, Anthony Stark came of age; a lead on the ever elusive Black Widow training program from their Russian side with the murder of a politician's daughter – Drakov – for no more reason than his disrespectful attitudes towards the old forces that ruled the Russian empire; the military trying to recreate the Super Soldier serum that Erskine had used on volunteer Stephen Rogers (and always failing to, much to his dismay)...

If he could get some new players into the game, it would seem like a much stronger accomplishement than just keeping the Agency afloat. When he reached his office, he shut the door and dialled up Maria Hill's number, to brief her on the development – Agent Peggy Carter agreeing to help them get to Barney Barton.

* * *

Three days later, it felt like a breakthrough finally happened in the Barton case. Not only had the FBI made contact to tell them that a potential lend of Agent Barney Barton would be possible given the right circumstances, but a video on a local news station was paged to him directly.

It was a documentary about a local circus, nothing big, three horses and an elephant, none of the over-the-top performing circuses with an entire zoo in their hold, but it still had the merit of catching his eye. And, for good reason, because there, in the background of the video showing the raising of the tent, a little bit blurred, was Clint Barton. He had done his best to avoid getting caught on camera this far, and the multitudes of scenarios suddenly gaining life in Nick's head made him pause for a while. He paged the information out to Hill, May and Coulson, and soon, they were all sitting in his office again, discussing the reason as to why this footage suddenly surfaced after over three months silence from the boy.

“D'you think it's a way for him to communicate with Barney? Let him know that he knows what's going on?” Coulson asked, as he saw the footage, undisputably recognizing the young archer. He wouldn't have done this mistake after remaining as good as dead to the world for over three months.

“Letting this surface now has got to mean that he knows we're closing in on him, he's probably trying to show us how confident he is in that he will never come in and that we will never pin him down,” Hill stated, as she exchanged a glance with May, who in return replied that:

“I think it's more of a false trail, to get us worked up and send out agents to track him down. By the time we get to the circus and ask around, he'll be long gone. It's getting more important now than ever to get our hands on his older brother, because otherwise he might soon leave the country and then it will be impossible to find him for sure.”

Nodding, Nick silenced them all with one hand as he looked down at a printed screenshot from the documentary. “We don't know yet what this means. What we do know is that the FBI has arranged for Barney Barton to come into our ranks, as a lease, for as long as we deem fit – getting Peggy Carter into the game loosened their protocols quite a bit,” he stated, as he eyed May longer than the others, knowing it was her idea to bring Carter in on the situation.

“We are to make contact with the older brother, and keep an eye out for any other communication between the two of them. If it means tailing him until he slips up, so be it. I want Clint Barton found as soon as possible,” he finished, as he dismissed them all. Melinda May stayed behind after Hill and Coulson had left the room, crossing her arms as she always did.

“We know that you want to create a special response team, sir, and we agree with you,” she began, and Nick frowned. There had to be a but in there somewhere. “We've discussed with Coulson, that it might be appropriate to look elsewhere for agents fitting that category, and that it might be a good call to include more people on the team than you already have crossed out.”

Nick shook his head. “No, we need one team that might work as exactly that – a team. We need to make sure to find the key players before adding the pawns, and I will not look into replacements until Clint Barton falls through as Hawkeye. I need him to be the cataclyst of this project.”

* * *

Getting the authorization to get Barney Barton turned out to be the easy part of the collaboration. For as soon as SHIELD contacted him, sending Agent Hill and Agent May in to accompany him from his FBI headquarters to his new SHIELD headquarters, he said absolutely nothing of use.

They had thought that he would maybe give them the silent treatment, but Nick soon found out that the older Barton possessed the ability to bullshit his way out of everything without even giving an ounce of information about _anything at all_. The ratio of words per minute that he was able to give out to protect himself and his younger brother seemed to be unbreakable. In the beginning, they tried with direct questions, before turning to other diverging approaches to get the intel out of him, and each time, they failed.

But, as Hill and May weren't getting anywhere with the older brother, apparently dead set on making their life hell, Nick decided that he would go in and talk with him. He saw no other way, after the list of failed intel gathering attempts grew longer and longer. So, as he set his boots into Barney's headquarters to wait for the red-headed agent to come back from his interview session with Agent May, he thought about the best way to put it.

Maybe if he played a game of chicken – see who would chicken out first? Putting his little brother's life on the line would be a good way to gamble, even though it would be dangerous. If Barney understood that they were desperate enough to terminate Clint's life if it was absolutely sure that he wouldn't join, then maybe Barney could convince the younger boy to come in.

He heard the footsteps of the older Barton before he saw him on the other side of the glass door and he braced himself for first contact. He was sure that Barney knew who he was, and there wouldn't be a long time where his window was open. Barney would probably throw him out – if he had understood anything about the Barton boys, it meant that they would never betray one another.

“Agent Barton,” Nick stated, as soon as Barney walked passed the doorframe into his headquarters and turned on the light. Immediately alert, Barney reached for a non-existent gun at his side and turned around to face his would-be opponent. As he rapidly assessed the situation, Nick saw understanding wash over his face. “I'm here to talk to you about-”

“My brother, yeah, I know, I heard you the first twenty times,” the younger agent interrupted, and Nick had to give it to him, he was spirited. “I'm not gonna change my mind because they send in the boss, Clint's gone I don't know where and he don't want to be found,” he continued, to what Nick raised a finger.

“Ah, but I think you do.” That gave the younger redhead reason to pause. “We have found evidence that you two communicate via several platforms, including what seems to be national television.” It was, of course a bluff (there was no evidence, except a hunch), but Barney didn't need to know that.

As much as he had been worried, Nick had to admit that Barney had an extremely good pokerface. However, he continued before Barney managed to get a word out.

“I believe that when I give you the right options, no, the two _only_ options, you will change your mind. You're very good at keeping people out of your head and heart, Agent Barton, but I believe that the way into that fortress of yours is closely linked to your little brother, Clint.” He paused one more time, as Barney frowned.

“The deal is this: get Clint to accept our offer and come into SHIELD ranks, go through all training and accept becoming an agent – if he proves to be worth all the ruffle, of course – or he dies. Simple as that.”

Reaching into one of the pockets of his jacket, Nick pulled out an enveloppe and handed it to Barney. “We have evidence of Clint's collaboration in three different murders. He might not have been the mastermind behind them, but he was the trigger finger.” He saw the older sibling take the enveloppe, and open it cautiously as if it were poisonous, and slowly, he pulled out the three different photos of three bodies. The same injury in the larynx. And, then, Nick knew that he had hit the right chord.

“If Clint doesn't agree, we could pin these murders on him and put him away for life. Although, three first degree murders, that could get him down on death charge, right?” He smiled, almost hungrily. “You're the Federal Agent, you tell me if the electric chair is such a stretch.”

Pushing the pictures back inside the enveloppe, Barney threw it at Nick, refusing to have anymore to do with it. “If we close a deal, he walks free of all charges?” Nick nodded. “Even if he turns out to not be what you're looking for?” Barney questioned, then, and Nick nodded yet again.

“We know about his hearing issues, as well as the fall he suffered from the hands of Jacques DuQuesne, Agent Barton. I'm fairly sure we know what we're getting into by asking you to bring him in,” Nick said, but Barney shook his head.

“Hell no you're not,” the redhead replied, stiffly. “Clint's a force to be reckoned with once he gets somethin' on his mind. You'll get to witness it soon enough.”

Raising an eyebrow, Nick pursed his lips, unimpressed. “Barton, believe me, we've seen plenty of stuff you wouldn't dream of. This is an institution created on the strange and on the odd, because of what these things can bring out in each other. I doubt a soon to be twenty year old will be such a force to be reckoned with,” he stated, almost challenging.

“I'll let you be the judge of that,” Barney spat out, before walking back to the door of his headquarters, clearly inviting Nick to exit the premises. He obliged, not saying another word to the agent. While exiting, he heard Barney chuckle, which made him turn around.

“Something you wanna say?” Nick asked, trying to sound unimpressed. He obviously succeeded.

“Ten bucks says you're wrong about of my baby brother,” Barney said, putting out his hand. Oh, a bet. Nick liked that spirit, and he recognized there the survival instinct of a kid who had been through hell and made it back alive. He nodded, accepting the bet, and they shook their hands, making it official.

There had been no real need for them to finish off such a deal, not in this fashion, but Nick liked it. With all the intel they had managed to gather on both Barton kids, he was fairly sure he knew what he was getting into. He was absolutely one hundred percent sure that Clint could grow to become a great Agent and a great example in team leading when the time would call for it.

Walking up the corridor, back to his own office and files, he looked down at the hand he had used to bet with. Maybe there was some unknown factor that they had strangely forgotten. But, somehow, with both Hill, May, Coulson, and even the young Bobbi Morse in on the case, he felt that they had covered every angle of the Hawkeye issue. Perhaps bringing in the older brother would offer another insight to the mission at hand. And, perhaps, that would be the best thing to happen before they actually got their hands on the young boy...

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!  
> What did you think? Did you like it? :)  
> Next chapter is someone we've already seen before. I give you three guesses as to whom it is :)


	3. Barney Barton – End-April 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't think you understand the gravity of your brother's and your own personal situation, Agent Barton.” Fury said, and Barney paused. He could feel his hand shaking, he needed to get to Clint first and warn him of what they were going to do to him. Turn him into a weapon for a secret organization. He hardly thought that Clint would agree to a life as a weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, Sunday again! I almost forgot to update, but here it is! And, we meet Barney again! :)  
> I hope you're ready! This chapter is a bit all over the place, but I hope you like it nonetheless.  
> (And, also, after two chapters without even seeing Clint, you get a peek at him in the end, so be ready for that!)  
> Enjoy! :)

As he sat down on his bunk, looking around the room that he had been appointed 'headquarters', Barney thought about all the different events that had lead to this position.

He wondered how many cameras and microphones had been planted in the room, and then decided that he didn't give a shit about them. He had done that too, when working with the FBI. Maybe they thought that he would be stupid enough to send out a message to Clint, to warn him about the death threat hanging over his head, but he was sure that he wouldn't mess that up. The threat had seemed pretty serious – get Clint in or he dies, as simple as that. Maybe he should decide to take it up? If he could get Clint in, then...

At least he knew that his brother would quit the world of crime and the circus circuit that they had both lived in for too long. There was no future in it, he knew that, but maybe Clint hadn't realized it yet. Though he probably had already. But, with no official profile to work with to get employed somewhere (unless it was undeclared work), Clint wouldn't be able to find a stable work. Not like this. He could work as a mechanic, maybe, or any sort of handy man, but that wouldn't certify his future. He was 20 years old, he could survive on bread and on water for a couple more years, scrapping money together from tips and perhaps a bit of stealing, but soon, he would come to realize that it wasn't the life he wanted to lead.

He'd end up on the streets or in a ditch somewhere because of a robbery gone wrong. Contemplating his options, Barney rubbed his face, and got up to wash his face in the sink.

He felt old, even though he was only 25 years old. He had been so much – the army had taken a lot from his soul and mind, and being with the FBI had meant that he had to put his conscience away every now and then. As he washed his face, he decided that maybe taking the deal would be the best thing. But getting close to Clint would turn out to be a problem – he wasn't even sure his younger brother would agree to _see_ him. Sure, they had been communicating through circus circuits and courriers, an inconspicuous way to get word around, but they hadn't talked since Barney had abandoned him in the circus, that cold winter day years ago. Well. Except in the hospital after Clint had shot him. But then Clint had decided to do a French leave and disappear without a word. That had hurt Barney's brotherly pride. A little bit.

* * *

“I'll take the deal.”

He didn't say anything else as he walked into Fury's office, unannounced, having gone past a security guard by punching him in the face. Fury looked up from his paperwork and arched his eyebrow. Barney didn't know which eye to look at – the one covered by the patch or the eye? Probably the eye.

“But on one condition: I bring him in. He deserves to know what kind of a shitty deal you put out-”

“We already have a team ready to collect him, Agent Barton,” Fury cut him off. Barney felt the vein on his forehead pulsing as he felt the rage grow in his chest. He couldn't believe it. Were they really that naïve? That Clint would come in willingly with a bunch of agents he had never heard off?

“You can't be serious, he's going to send them back with a broken nose if not worse. Clint won't agree to come in unless he knows someone. He's cautious like that, always has been,” Barney snapped, and the security agent that had followed him in backed away as Fury motioned him to.

“I don't think you understand the gravity of your brother's and your own personal situation, Agent Barton.” Fury said, and Barney paused. He could feel his hand shaking, he needed to get to Clint first and warn him of what they were going to _do_ to him. Turn him into a weapon for a secret organization. He hardly thought that Clint would agree to a life as a weapon.

“You are all a bunch of rip-offs. Gambling with people's lives like that, you should be ashamed of yourselves,” he barked back, and Fury just shrugged.

“I'm not the one who shot three innocent people in the larynx with an arrow. Or who shot my own brother with an arrow in the shoulder,” the older agent replied, and Barney felt the urge to punch him. ( _Sometimes, he had come to understand now, how his own father had felt the urge to throw a punch at someone. But, Barney had decided to never lower himself to that level. Ever._ )

“Fine. You take him in after I find him for you, but then I don't want anything to do with him,” Barney decided to throw out there. If he couldn't take in Clint, he didn't want anything to do with him. He didn't want to think about his little brother anymore, he had closed the deal, wouldn't that suffise? Clint didn't need to know what he had done for him, and he didn't need to know that it was Barney who had found him. “I don't even want him to know I found him or closed the deal for him.”

He saw Fury's eye twitch, and he understood that Fury didn't get why he was suddenly changing opinion on things. He had been dead set on bringing him in five minutes earlier, and now he wanted nothing to do with him. The pain in his shoulder flaring up at the thought of it, he remembered what his little brother had done. All the times it had been Clint here and Clint there, and Clint again and... No, he didn't want to fall into that again. He had finally managed to rip himself apart from his little brother, and if he made contact with him again, he would never be able to do it again.

“Deal, Agent Barton,” Fury stated, putting out his hand. “But our bet still stands,” he reminded Barney, and Barney nodded at it again.

“Of course it does.”

He shook Fury's hand before taking a step back, falling into his usual Agent mode. _Barney, you gotta handle this like any sort of case you deal with for the FBI_. _It's just another case. You don't have any blood bond with the subject_.

“I'll find Clint before the week is over. And then, you better be ready for his reaction, cuz he's not going to come willingly. Those agents you got covering the case? Coulson, May, Hill? They're gonna come home bloodied or empty handed,” he said, trying to get his usual professional tone back. The vein on his forehead didn't pulse anymore. “And, if I find him one time, and you loose him again, I won't find him again. You'll have to deal with that needle and that haystack out there on your own.”

Fury nodded again before standing up and accompanying Barney to the door. He put his hand on the other Agent's shoulder before stopping him on the way out. “You get your kid brother in, we'll take it from there. You've taken good care of him this far, Barney. You shouldn't be afraid for him, he's done incredibly well, and that's all thanks to your guidance.”

Barney didn't know what Fury meant by telling him this. Why was he telling him this now? He felt the breath leave him as he saw Fury walk out of his office like it was nothing, and he was left standing there like a fish out of the water. It wasn't fair that all these people knew everything about his past. At the FBI, they had done background checks and they had made sure that they knew why Barney had left the circus and the orphanage, but they had accepted him nonetheless (that sort of happens when they come to recruit him out of the army to join their ranks and protect federal security).

He turned around, before walking up to his headquarters again, everything inside his minding calling out for him to reconsider. Was he doing a bad thing? Why did he have a bad feeling about all this mess? Should he just piss off from here and go be somewhere else? Try to hope that neither the FBI nor SHIELD would find him again? Disappear like Clint? Maybe it was a good idea. But then again, he had a good life. He had a home – when he wasn't caged like a rabid dog – he had a good salary, he had friends. Well. The sort that you can share a beer or two with, not the ones you talk about those times in high school with.

* * *

Pinning Clint down turned out to be a bit harder than he had thought. Either because the last message he had sent his baby brother was to 'get out' or because Clint had just decided to ignore him as well. However, it wasn't completely impossible. For someone who came from the circus circuit and who had contacts, or who had been known in it for a while, it was easier to talk to them.

Circus folk tend to stay solidary of each other, even when one has left. Because you don't really leave. Once you've bled and shed your sweat to rise a circus tent, you're one of the guys, and you don't loose that title ever. Barney just thought that maybe, somehow, that world would be more hostile to his return. He had avoided circuses like the pest, hoping that somehow, it would erase the many years spent there, mucking out the zebras' and the horses' shit, that maybe, it would erase all the scars and all the memories he had gotten while there. The sight of his kid brother bruised and battered. The sight of his kid brother on a poster, advertising for the Amazing Hawkeye, trying to get people to flock to Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders and spend their money on popcorn, spend their money on getting their fate and future read by the Hungarian seer who was actually from Nebraska...

No, the circus life wasn't one that he would voluntarily come back to. As he walked into the camp behind Circus Flagellant, wearing civilian clothes, he felt the pressure from the circus artists immediately. Whenever an unbidden guest wandered into the camp behind the circus tent, they would either be quietly escorted back out, or taken in by curious artists. (It often depended on the age of the civilian, or on their sex.) He could feel the gaze of the lion tamer, sitting on the left, over there, wearing nothing but a pair of orange shorts and drinking a beer, he could feel the gaze of the clown on the right, playing cards with the knife thrower.

The young kids, some of the assistants, had stopped playing in the hay with a stick, and were watching him. However, he knew the owner of the circus, Mister Georges Flagellant himself, from a time when he had been interested in a collaboration with Carson. He hoped to play that familiar card, and when he asked for Georges by name, the knife thrower got up and eyed him carefully, as if he represented a threat.

Following the man quietly, keeping to himself and avoiding the gaze of other circus artists, he was brought into a trailer much like the one he had been sleeping in as a teenager, sharing bunk beds with little Clint. Georges looked up from his papers and Barney read his confusion in his eyes.

“Hi, Georges, been a long time since we've seen each other,” he started, to assert the familiarity. “I'm Barney Barton, you might remember me from-”

“Carson's! Yes, blimey, you've grown boy!” the man erupted, before standing up from his seat and hushing the knife thrower out of the trailer, closing the door behind him. He motioned for Barney to sit down. Immediately, Barney felt the tension diffuse and he felt at ease. How many times had he sat in a similar chair when at Carson's?

“I hear your brother's causing quite the rufus,” Georges then stated, and Barney nodded somberly. “And, I hear that you're with the FBI.”

At first, Barney wasn't quite sure how to react, but when the smile Georges wore reached his eyes and he knew it was just casual mischief, he smiled back.

“Yes, I am. But I'm not here on behalf of the FBI, I'm here on behalf of someone else.” He sighed, rubbing his temple with the palm of his head. They felt moist, he was nervous about this. If Georges refused to help him find his kid brother, SHIELD would probably get frustrated and start their own investigations, which would put a lot of pressure on his back. “I need to find Clint, or these someone else's are going to kill him.”

Barney bit his lower lip, as he watched Georges face and reaction. The older man nodded, as he sat back, resting his back against the chair, eyeing Barney carefully. “I heard about Clint's misbehaviour with what's-his-name, Chisholm? Sad to hear such a great artist go down that road, but it's not unheard of.” The man nodded to himself, remembering something Barney was unawares of.

“Well, I can tell you Clint's come through here, two months ago approximately. He asked us to keep an eye out for him, and he helped with the elephants, taught some o' the kids how to throw stones and even knives.”

That was better than Barney had ever imagined – he'd gone here on a hunch that the old familiarity between Carson and Flagellant would flare up with Clint, and he'd been right. “Did he tell you where he was headed next?” Barney asked, but Georges shook his head.

“No, unfortunately. He just told us to keep anyone off his track, and we've done so,” Georges started, and Barney let him finish by nodding. “Some agents, I s'pose from this agency o' yours came a month ago and tried to get information out of us, but we're proud here, and we keep our own safe. We didn't let a peep seep through.”

Barney smiled and nodded. “Nah, they told me they got nothing out from any of the circuses they visited.” That seemed to warm Georges heart.

“I'm proud. I am only telling you this, Barney, because I remember you and your brother with Carson. I'm just asking, why are they so interested in him?” The director seemed genuinely concerned, and Barney thought it best to give him as much information as possible – and at the same time as little as possible.

“They're interested in those throwing skills you said he taught some kids, and they're also looking to clear his file from those things he did with Trick Shot.”

“Good. If they're going to look out for him, it's good, right? I hated to hear that he'd joined Maynard and his godforsaken Circus of Crime when he did, and now that he's hiding, I only guessed that he done something wrong.” Shaking his head, Georges pulled a drawer open and handed its content to Barney. It was an arrow head, and Barney recognized it as Clint's own make. It had his initials engraved in it, and he knew why Georges had it.

“He gave me this as thanks for keeping people off his track, and I'm guessing you'll need it more than I. You can ask young Paddy out there if he's heard anything, he came in to join Angela a couple o' weeks ago. He's good at reading people, he'll talk to you. He's in the trailer with the Boy Wonder Sees All painted all over it.”

And with that, the conversation was over. As much as Barney would have liked it to go on, Georges was getting up and inviting him to do the same. And, a couple of seconds later, he was out of the trailer, the arrow head in his clenched fist. He looked up at the other circus artists who had gone back to their own business – that was often how it went, if the stranger went in to talk with the director of the circus, it meant that they were welcome in the camp.

Barney walked around for a little while, looking for this young Paddy that Georges had mentioned, before finding the trailer. It was a blond man, about Barney's age, sitting on a camping chair, his eyes closed. Or, it seemed like they were closed. Coming closer to him, he went to ask him about Clint, but the other man cut him to the chase.

“You're Clint Barton's older brother, aren't you? And you're looking for him.”

Well, at least that was clear. Arching his eyebrow, Barney nodded, and the other man opened his eyes to look at him. He didn't seem impressed by him, and Barney felt about the same back at him. Circus artists often knew each other's party tricks, and this guy was probably just a good crook. Someone good at reading people and pretending to be a psychic.

“Yeah-”

“He's gone to the West Coast,” this so called Paddy said, as he closed his eyes again. “He said he was going to lay low over there, and wait for you to show up or something else to come up.”

There didn't seem to be any more discussion and Barney frowned. “How am I supposed to just find him if he's laying low?” he asked, as he saw the man open his eyes, a glint of malice shining in them.

“He just said that he'd be staying with the gymnasts,” Paddy replied, looking Barney over, as if he was reading him. It felt sort of strange, as if all his secrets had been revealed. “He said you'd know who he meant when you came looking for him.”

And with that, Paddy refused to say anymore. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, to finish the conversation completely. Barney stood there for a couple of seconds, before turning back around as he realized what that meant.

_Of course!_

* * *

Three days later, Barney – with the help of SHIELD Agent Melinda May – managed to track down the carnival that he knew Clint would be hiding at. It hadn't been all too difficult – just looking for the right posters and the right clues, he supposed, but still – and with the help of SHIELD transporation, he found himself on the West Coast, looking at the blue and yellow tent standing tall in front of him. He had May in his earpiece, and he was worried about what would come out of the situation.

After much barking, yelling and even discussing, they had managed to compromise. May had understood the importance Barney represented in getting Clint to come in with SHIELD, and she had managed to convince the others to let him talk to Clint first. She would be waiting outside if Clint made a run for it, or if he made an attempt on Barney's life even though he doubted it would come to that. (Yes, Barney had changed his mind. He had worried day and night about it, and decided that he needed to see his baby brother one last time. Just one last time, and then, he promised himself, he would never need to see him again. Ever).

Barney knew that Clint would be in there, everything had pointed towards it, but mostly because he knew that Clint would have been hiding in there with the ability to blend in with his friend, the Flying Grayson. Clint had been athletic enough to train with some gymnasts that went through Carson, and it made sense that Clint would have gone to stay with them. The intel SHIELD had gathered showed that they had a son now, and if Clint was still as happy with small kids as he had ever been, it was the perfect hiding place.

Walking into the circus tent, Barney had decided that he would watch the show before trying to approach Clint. It meant two things, also: that either Clint saw him and decided to run, or that Clint saw him and decided to stay.

About two hours later, when Barney started to rise from his seat, as one of the last spectators, he saw someone walk against the flow of the crowd, and at first, he wasn't sure if it was Clint, but when the person came closer, there was no doubt left. It was Clint.

“I'm not here to-”

But before he was able to finish the sentence, the punch that he'd seen Clint prepare for landed right under his jaw and he felt his teeth _clack_ together upon impact. Well. Maybe he deserved that.

“That's for coming here like this, unannounced,” Clint snapped, and Barney thought he saw something rabid in his brother's eyes. Well. Something wild had anchored itself in Clint's eyes, and within the half second it took him to dodge the second punch, he thought of his bet with Fury. SHIELD would have a fun time taming Clint, and he would be ten bucks richer by the end of the month.

“That was supposed to be for coming in here, like a goddamn Federal agent and getting everybody worked up about it,” Clint barked, and Barney caught his fist on the second attempt to throw a punch at him.

“Clint, I gotta talk to you. If you don't come in with these guys, they'll kill you,” he said, gritting his teeth together. He could feel the blood from where his teeth had closed on his tongue, and he already hated the pain that would probably numb him for a while. “These guys are dead serious, they'll terminate you if you don't agree to come in,” he managed to get out, as Clint pulled his fist from his hand.

“Terminate me? You sound like Terminator. How'd they get to you?”

Barney saw his younger brother spit at his feet, and through the too large t-shirt he was wearing, he saw the scar that Chisholm's arrow had left in his shoulder. At least they had matching scars now. Well. That and all the other ones they had gotten during the years.

“They didn't get to me. I'm serious, Clint.” But his little brother didn't seem to want to listen, and Barney felt the frustration grow. It was like talking to a wall. “They will kill you, and you'll be dead before you even know it. They know everything about you, except where you are, that's what they needed me for,” Barney started, but Clint just shook his head and rolled his eyes. Like a teenager. Indestructible.

“Barn', you're an idiot. You shouldn't have worried, I'm great here, I'll just stay here until the heat dies out,” he said, and Barney felt the vein on his forehead throbbing again. Why wouldn't he just understand how serious the situation was? SHIELD was dangerous as hell, and if Clint didn't oblige they would kill him.

“Fine. You know what, I thought that I'd manage to get some sense into that thick head of yours, but you're just as naïve as you ever were,” Barney barked, as he went to push Clint out of his way.

* * *

“Agent Barton, report.” He could hear the words repeated in his earpiece, and he felt like ripping it out. Couldn't they leave him for about seven seconds before they barked into his head like dogs? Thirsty, stupid dogs?

“I'm here, give me some time you morons,” he growled, knowing they'd hear him. There was a pause for a couple of seconds, before a voice broke through again.

“Did you get the tracker in place?” Agent May's voice asked, as neutral as he had ever heard her talk, and he nodded, before replying.

“Yeah, I did. In the sheath he carries his knives in,” he replied, as he walked up to the rendez-vous point. “Now, let me go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how'd you like it? Barney's so pissed, I'm so amused at writing him this way. Next week should be Melinda again, and there will be more Clint. (A lot of it. And a lot of angst.)
> 
> Let me know how you liked it, and if you've found/guessed the cameos Easter Eggs I dropped here. (Hint: it's got to do with other characters who also happen to be of carnie inheritance. Not saying any more, though, I hope you figure them out!)
> 
> Love you all!


	4. Melinda May – Mid July 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like time itself had gone still, and she saw Clint's eyes lock with hers, before she noticed the nervous tell on his neck. He was going to make a run for it. So much for her bluff about having the place surrounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUNDAY AGAIN!  
> I hope you enjoy it :')

“He hit me. Right in the face.”

Handing him a towel to keep the blood flow contained from his nose, Melinda turned around and looked at the feed from the security footage. She'd just witnessed Clint hit Phil, live, and she had had absolutely no idea how it had happened.

“He hit me!” Coulson exclaimed again, and Melinda frowned, pressing the rewind button to try and figure out how the kid had gotten out of his hand cuffs. “He actually hit me in the nose. It's broken, I think,” he added, and Melinda almost laughed. It would have been inappropriate.

“Don't be such a baby, Coulson. Go down to medical, I'll take over.”

She knew that he was watching her back, as if to find something to protest over, but eventually, he left the room, his head arched back to keep the flow steady (and maybe stop it entirely). She paused the feed at the beginning of the verbal fight, and frowned again.

Clint had been handcuffed to the table all the while Coulson had been in there, and he hadn't been supposed to get out of those cuffs until he agreed to work for them. But, then again, getting him to sit still in those cuffs... Well, that had been one memorable tale. (And one, she knew, that Fury would lose ten bucks to Barney over. Because, as Barney had said again, and again, and yet again, Clint was like a caged animal, and there would be a lot of work before he could be even a decent agent.)

“How did you get out of those?” she whispered to herself, as she hit play.

* * *

It had all begun after Barney had put the tracker into Clint's sheath. They had agreed to not take him in immediately, and to let the younger boy see his brother leave SHIELD. They had parted ways right after debriefing with him, and there had been no further contact with the older brother.

The FBI had taken him back, no questions asked, and there had been no more collaboration from that side. Now, it was just a matter of time before they decided to move in and grab the kid out of his hiding spot. To find the right time, however...

The long and arduous discussions on the plan of action had ended in a break on the Hawkeye case. They had decided that as long as the circus he was currently with were in their summer tour, they wouldn't interfere. (Hill had thrown in the hypothesis of making him feel like they had forgotten him, but Melinda knew that a boy as clever as him would never let his guard down).

Fury had told Director Carter of their progress on the case, but as he had told her that they were putting the file on hiatus, she had asked him to look at the new recruits that Director Pierce had approved. One, Brock Rumlow, they had brought in themselves too, and had agreed to let him train to be a member of their special operations force should he prove himself worthy. The other, Jasper Sitwell, came from the Academy with a fine sheet in organising and handling – Agent Coulson and herself would be consultants in his training.

There were several others, but these two stood out with their skills. Pierce had been adamant – if they failed getting this 'carnie kid with no education to show for it' into his organization, they would have to settle with Rumlow. She didn't really like Rumlow. He had a vibe that felt off, the kind of person who used to be a bully because of his size and who ended up on the right (or was it wrong?) side of the gun.

But she had agreed. (Can't argue with the boss' bosses anyway).

* * *

 

As time went by, she realized that the young Brock possessed keen abilities in both marksmanship and fighting. One day, they had spared together and Brock had almost knocked her down – almost.

Phil, on the other hand, he been overlooking Jasper's integration as a part of the team and he was as keen on the administrative parts, plannings and other sorts of tasks that came with handling a team.

Introducing them both to young Bobbi Morse, who had, since trying to find Clint, been on a mission in Germany to try and seek out passive HYDRA clues after the fall of the wall, was one of the highlights of the month. Both Brock and Jasper had backed away at the young woman's firery humor and presence, and they had gotten their asses kicked respectively on the sparring floor and in the tactical room. (Melinda thought that Bobbi would be one of their better agents. She was practically flawless).

* * *

Things started picking up in late June. They got word that Clint hadn't been going out of the circus' tracks for a while, staying low, keeping his profile secret and working in the shadows of the tent, but when they noticed that his tracker had been keeping still for more than 24 hours, they started getting anxious.

If they lost him again, they would never find him again. Barney had said that time and time again. Melinda was sure it was because even he wouldn't be able to find him again, and she trusted his lying to show who the real mastermind was: Clint.

They monitored the tracker for a couple of hours more, still not moving, before they decided to move in. They called it a now or never situation, fearing that Clint might have found the device and decided to bail.

When they got to the circus, under the change and quiet calm that the artists seemed to display, they soon found that something had happened and that it would be their opportunity to go in and grab Clint.

* * *

It hadn't exactly been easy. Melinda still remembers the life draining from Clint's face as she crossed through to the tent where he was having an argument with knife throwers, lion tamers and clowns all together. From what she had heard, the others were going to force him to get out. Not because of what he did, they said, no, the Circus of Crime is a rite of passage some of them thought, no, but because they had found this in his sheath, and they didn't like being spied on.

Silence fell on the group almost immediately, when everyone saw her. She knew how to keep her cool, not panic. Do not panic, not with a knife thrower in their midst, and with the asset that they so badly want to bring in. He could probably throw a stolen knife at her in a matter of seconds, and before she knew where to shoot she would be coughing from the wound in her neck.

“The area is surrounded,” she said, very distinctively, so that there was no place for confusion.

“All we want is the kid there, and we will leave your people alone.”

She raised the jacket she was wearing, revealing the gun, and then lifted the SHIELD badge that she had taken with her. She knew that the circus folk wouldn't give a damn what badge it was – cops, CIA, FBI, any other agency, they were all the same – and as soon as they saw the metallic reflection on it, they parted, leaving Clint in her direct line of sight.

For a couple of seconds, they were all silent.

Quiet.

Nothing moved.

Like time itself had gone still, and she saw Clint's eyes lock with hers, before she noticed the nervous tell on his neck. He was going to make a run for it. So much for her bluff about having the place surrounded. (They were 6 agents. Her, Coulson, Bobbi, Rumlow, and their evac team, consisting of a driver and air support in the form of a helicopter).

And, the moment he turned around to run, she raised her gun and shot at him.

The bullet went through his calf, and she saw his knee give in. He fell, almost slow motion, down into the sand of the arena, as the other circus artists took another step back, still dead silent. This was not their fight. It was between him, the boy who had come here with a trail of agents and whispers, and her, representing justice.

The cloud of dust that he raised as he cried out in pain settled quietly. Walking up to him, past the other artists, she heard Coulson's voice in her earpiece, and then she heard footsteps behind her. Bobbi and Brock were behind her almost as soon as she reached the young boy in front of her.

He looked miserable. Looking up at her, trying to worm his way out of her reach, the blood oozing out from the wound. He was trying to get away, in spite of the injury that wouldn't allow him to get far. She saw in this the survival instinct she had tasted in Barney. Those Barton boys would do anything to survive. Clint Barton had been shot down like a wild animal, cornered and frightened of what they were going to do to him. The image would have been pathetic, had Melinda not known that under that sand colored hair, that under those blue eyes now wide with fear, that under the profile of a young kid, a murderer was hiding. She had no doubt as to what he was able to do, if she hadn't shot one of his legs useless. She'd seen the footage of him with the gymnasts. And the contortionists. Clint was one of those creatures made to create pain if he set his mind to it.

“You've got nowhere to go,” she barked, as Brock bent forward and grabbed Clint's elbow. Including Rumlow in the team had been a big argument – she had voted against it, but in the end, Coulson and Fury had won – but now, she was happy to have someone strong to hold against Clint.

The moan of pain that escaped the boy's lips was the witness to the strength that Brock had in him, and as he pulled the archer up on his one and a half leg, Brock looked as satisfied as anything. Like catching a stray dog with rabies, Melinda thought. She felt something crawl under her skin as she turned to look at the other carnie artists who were staring. One of them spit on the ground, but if it was meant for her or for Clint, she didn't know. She heard Clint growl something at Brock, and as the sound of a punch landing correctly echoed in the tent, she knew that Brock had probably just hit the kid in the temple to get him to calm down.

Frowning, she tried to keep steady as she watched the knife thrower. He looked like the one responsible for isolating Clint in the tent today, and if she read him well, he would accept to get rid of the kid as fast as possible.

“Where are his things?” she questioned. No emotion filtered through her words, and the man broke from the formation to get up, as close as possible, to her.

“In the caravan.” He paused before speaking up again. A faint Romanian accent filtered through, and she supposed he played it up for the audience when they came to him. “You take his things, you take him too, and you leave us alone?”

Nodding, she watched him look over his shoulder, as if to get the approval of the others. “I will take him, yes. And you won't ever hear of him again.”

They didn't need to shake hands on it, because he turned around and started leading her towards what she hoped was Clint's home. She dared not look over her shoulder – don't show fear – for she knew that any and all of those artists would probably have some sort of weapon hidden on them. They protected each other, right? That's what Barney had said?

And, a couple of minutes later, as she exited with 14 knives rolled up in a carpet, an unstringed bow under her elbow, and a hip-quiver full of arrows attached to her hip, she knew that they wanted to boy out and away.

Melinda walked across the backyard of the circus, walked through the angry stares and the supersticious ones, and she saw some of them make some sort of finger sign that she didn't know. But, she supposed, it had to be a bad sign. Or a good riddance one. Nobody said anything. Nobody tried to stop her. Nobody tried to follow her. They watched her walk across this silent hell, and when she unloaded the weapons and the one little bag with personal belongings onto the trunk of the car, she knew that Clint would never set foot in this particular circus again.

* * *

Melinda heard about the trouble Clint Barton was creating before she witnessed it herself. She'd hear the agents talk about how he had refused to receive medical care for his leg until they had needed to restrain him, yelling something about kidnapping him and that he would never agree to this shitty thing they wanted him to do for them. He would never agree to become an agent, he would never agree to kill or shoot for them, he would never, ever agree to wear their clothes.

And, at first, he didn't. They bandaged his leg, and put him in a holding cell in the Triskelion. There, he was supposed to stay until he agreed to calm down and be civilized. When they understood that _that_ was going to be harder to achieve than anything, was when Clint ripped off the bandage on his leg and used the bloodied rags to blur out the security camera's view of his cell. He refused to say anything, and acted violent towards any person who came into the cell, not caring about the injury on his leg, and Melinda half expected him to tell them that he'd rather bleed out than work for them.

So, they decided to plaster his leg. Like one of those dogs that get a collar on so they can't scratch their injuries. Clint Barton refused to cooperate at all stages, and they had to ask for back up to hold him down. (Doctors refused to give him too much sedative for as long as the injury hadn't closed, and Melinda really hoped that they would just tell them to knock him out with a good old-fashioned punch to the temple). When Clint was taken back to his cell, it took him about five minutes to pull off the shirt he had been wearing, and block out the camera view again.

In the end, the team decided that having that camera view wouldn't be very important anyway. Not with the security guards posted outside his cell.

* * *

For a couple of days, nobody tried anything. They brought him food which he didn't eat, they brought him water which he did drink, they brought him medicine that he did take. The security guard outside his cell reported back every hour to tell them what was happening inside and what Clint was up to, but by the end of the first week, Phil broke and said that the kid needed to eat something, not just drink and take his medicine. (The fact that the kid was actually keeping hydrated and took the antibiotics for his wound showed that at least, he wasn't completely dumb).

“You sure you want to bring him the food yourself?” Melinda asked, as she arched her eyebrow, quizical, at Phil who was currently prepare a tray of food brought up from the cafeteria.

“He's not going to do anything, he's starved, he hasn't eaten a single thing in a week, Melinda,” Phil responded, plucking down the piece of bread next to the plate. “He needs to eat.”

“I still think we should cuff him to the table, just in case,” she added, turning her back to him and finding the old fashioned cuffs they had used on him the day they had apprehended him. “We have no idea what sort of tricks he knows and if he can kill you with his bare hands. Which he probably can. I mean, he's 20 and he's almost stronger than any of the STRIKE agents we've got running around outside our offices.” She paused, before sighing. “Have you even tried to string and pull back the bow he uses for his shows? I couldn't.”

Phil paused, as he gazed up at her, suddenly uneasy about what the proper approach was. If the kid was that strong then maybe-

“Yeah, I'll have Rumlow cuff him to the table.”

* * *

When Phil walked into the holding cell where Clint had been cuffed to a metal table, balancing the tray on one hand and holding Clint's file in the other, he looked rather calm. Melinda watched on the video feed (Brock had pulled the t-shirt off the camera, so that they could keep an eye on the exchange). Phil sat down in the chair and put down the tray in front of Clint, who refused to lift his eyes from his hands.

Melinda was actually nervous. They had no idea how Clint would react, and they had no idea if he would even accept the food. She could see that he had lost a bit of weight from refusing to eat for the past week, but he didn't look sick, which meant that the wound on his leg was closing well. He should have no problems getting over it.

“I brought you some food,” Phil started. Clint lifted his head a couple of degrees, just enough to get a look at the tray in front of him, but he didn't make a peep.

“You've got to eat, Barton. There is no use starving yourself here.”

Was that a grunt? Did Clint just grunt? Bending forward and turning up the volume, Melinda frowned. If he had gone non-verbial it wasn't a good sign. He always barked something at his 'attackers' when they came in to the cell. But he didn't grunt. New tactics, perhaps? Giving them the silent treatment?

“I understand that you're unwilling to collaborate with us. But, you have to understand that we are merely trying to help you here, Mister Barton. You're a young kid, you could do a great different in the world. Shape the century, if given the right tools.”

Melinda smiled. That was Coulson all over. He always tried to make the best out of SHIELD, and make it sound familiar. But, somehow, it didn't stick with Clint here. The boy leant forward, putting his head down onto the table and obscuring his hands in the motion. He hit the table about three times. The purpose? Melinda had absolutely no idea. Besides, there was no risk, Brock had locked those handcuffs pretty well, and when Phil just pushed the tray forward to read something in Clint's file, Clint looked up again, as if nothing had happened.

She could see the glint in his eyes. Those calculating eyes, that could understand things faster than anyone else. She knew what Barney had meant with it being difficult to tame him, and she also understood why. That survival instinct... It was stronger than anything else. But he would come. He would grow quietly into an agent once he understood the real profit in the situation.

“If you would just allow us to show you what we are, and what we want to do, we could-”

The two following seconds passed so fast that Melinda barely got the time to understand what had happened. The first thing that she knew, Phil had hurried out of the cell, out to the surveillance room, holding his nose with one hand, his head held back.

* * *

“So, you're saying he uncuffed himself and hit Agent Coulson with a fist before grabbing the tray and throwing it at the door?”

Melinda and Phil were standing in Nick Fury's office, Brock Rumlow standing behind them, with Maria Hill in tow.

“It appears that he knows how to uncuff classical restraints, yes.” Phil wore a plaster on his nose – it had indeed been broken – and he looked like he was more embarrassed by it than angry. “We seem to have under-estimated his abilities.”

“Well, when have we not done that?” Fury stated, putting his hands flat on the table, looking at some screenshots from the 'attack' that they had isolated from the video feed. “I am disappointed in all of you for letting this punk get the better of you.” Oh. Well, that stung, Melinda thought to herself as she tried to keep her composure.

“I will not tolerate another failure, and I want him ready for training within the next three months. Are we understood?” he deadpanned, absolutely emotionless.

There was a long moment without any sound, but as they were almost getting ready to turn around and leave, Nick looked up at Maria Hill. “Bring out the taser-cuffs from storage, looks like we've got to use them on another one.”

Another one? Melinda frowned. Fury would not have this information slip on accident, and she felt that he was trusting them with something that they hadn't been cleared for. Another? Which other one? The taser-cuffs were used to keep people completely still. But she didn't know that someone had actually enjoyed the pleasure of wearing those until now? How was that even possible?

Who the hell had rubbed Fury the wrong way and pushed him to the edge like Clint just had?

And why hadn't she heard anything about it?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you like it! Have any guesses as to whom needed taser cuffs? :)


	5. Nick Fury - August 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When things go down the drain with the Barton boy, Nick Fury decides that they need to change their plans. However, he still underestimates the young boy's skills and soon, they almost have more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this chapter is very short (less than 3k, I know, I'm sorry!) but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. The next one should be better, this is more of a sort of filler.  
> I hope you're ready for it, though!

“I don't care what you have to do, get him to behave.”

There hadn't been any other way to put it, as he watched Coulson rubbing his sore nose. It was still healing from where the Barton kid had punched him in the face on a failed prison break mission.

They'd put him in the taser cuffs, as he had instructed, but it hadn't seem to keep the young man from behaving. Sure, now, whenever he moved too quickly or did any movement any of the guards didn't approve of, he would get zapped, but it didn't mean that he would settle down.

Nick remembered his bet with the older Barton sibling, and sighed. “I won't have him brew up trouble in the cells again, get him isolated. I don't care if he doesn't see another human face for three months, he has to learn who he's dealing with now,” he deadpanned and watched the agent carefully.

They both knew what it meant. They both were very well aware of what that meant, and having Clint stay in the containment for a longer amount of time could either break him or bend him. Either way, there was no way of knowing.

“Sir, with all due respect, we've already got the other one down in containment, maybe we should-”

“No, we shouldn't. Get him down there. I won't have him start another riot by triggering the alarms with a goddamn spoon.”

It had been, in retrospect, a goddamn disaster. They'd thought that bringing him food, all while keeping him cuffed, would have been the best idea. That way, he would have had to make an effort to get fed, to drink – basically, wearing the cuffs 24/7 would have to make him docile at some point.

Except it hadn't. The first two weeks where the Barton kid wore them, he behaved more or less. Every time he met Coulson's gaze, a vicious animosity suddenly woke in the boy, and they started to keep Coulson from his cell. Only May and Hill were allowed inside. For interrogation purposes, for comfort, or just to try and get him to agree with SHIELD's terms.

Then, one day, they had left him on his own with his platter of food. Fork, knife, spoon, plate. They were all made of some unbreakable plastic (that way, none of their 'prisoners' could attempt a suicide, no matter how hard they tried). He had started eating, quietly, and as the security feed showed him politely chewing the food and swallowing almost gleely, it also showed him picking up the spoon, before walking to the door.

He'd knocked several times on the little window, which had been opened by one of the guards, and with a simple flick of his wrist – which had, tased him the instant he did it – he had propulsed the spoon out the cell, and onto one of the security alarms. The shock had activated it, shutting down all the functioning electricity in the cells, turning off the bright lights, only leaving a blue glow, and had, subsequently, caused a riot in the entire cell block.

Of course, Clinton Francis Barton had collapsed the moment the tase shook through his body, but by the time he was semi-conscious again, he had flicked the finger at the security camera before rolling onto the other side, as if to show the security watching him that he only wanted to grace them with his ass.

He was a goddamn prick. A little goddamn prick. Nick was starting to worry when he would suffer a heart attack – or start shooting blasts of energy – with all the electrical shocks he was causing himself. Eventually, he'd called Coulson into his office to have the Barton boy moved down further in the Triskelion.

Down to where they kept the real interesting people. And where the boy could roam around a cell with no windows without risking his heart every time he tried to break out again.

Coulson broke Fury's thoughts by speaking again. “Roger that, sir. I'll get Agent May and Agent Rumlow to move him down.”

He nodded, approvingly, before he turned around, effectively dismissing Coulson from his office. The boy had proven to have such potential, why was he so intent on making their lives a misery? Sure, the older brother had warned them that Clint wouldn't bend without a fight, but this?

It almost felt like Clint was trying to get as many shocks as possible. To prick them as much as possible. And to make their lives hell as much as possible. If anything, Nick had to give it to him.

He was succeeding.

* * *

Moving him turned out to be another fight. They had to use a sedative to keep the boy from breaking their bones – damn that kid was agile and flexible – and they had to strap his hands behind his back, in the taser cuffs, as they took him down.

Whenever a new potential asset made it down to the Vault, it was an uproar above. Usually, SHIELD kept the special ones down there, those they weren't sure of. The ones with powers, those that they knew would pose a threat.

Like the last one they had brought in from a London underground base with ties to an old German terrorist organisation. She had come willingly, but under duress, she had almost killed all the accompanying agents.

They'd taken her down under in a matter of hours, and she had stayed down there. She kept pleading for cooperation, telling them it was a mistake. But with her record, and her origins, they weren't sure if she was just trying to infiltrate them. Maybe she was a young girl, who had accidentely been a parter of a greater evil, before figuring out what they were doing. But her powers – not only the strength and the speed, but all the other things that came with her.

Nick decided that they would put the Barton boy down next to her cell. They wouldn't be able to communicate. They wouldn't even be able to hear each other, but somehow, he hoped that having them close would lead to something good.

Watching the security feed from the two adjacent cells, he wondered.

_Clinton Francis Barton and Jessica Miriam Drew._

What was he going to do with those two?

* * *

It was a total of three days before the boy started trying to get out. But down there, down in the Vault, things were different. They were on their own. Nobody to hear them knock on the doors, nobody to hear them scream. It happened that some of the enhanced would hear the others, through vibrations or through hyper-hearing, but they never communicated.

Clint started trying to knock the door out of its hinges. Nick had seen some of the previous ones try to do the same, but by the time Clint sat down on the floor, his knuckles bleeding and his body shaking, he had managed to knock the metal slightly out of shape. Maybe they had underestimated his physical abilities. (Then again, they had never truly managed to test him specifically. That bow that he used in the circus was one of the few they found in the aftermath of him getting out. The most impressive one, an old fashioned longbow, they estimated to be at 250 pounds of draw strength.)

(Nick would be lying if he hadn't seen some of the agents, Rumlow even, try to pull it back, only to fail and throw it on the ground. He'd sent May to clean up the mess and stock the weapons neatly, in case Clint ever earned the right to see them again.)

He watched Clint heave for air, as the blood on his knuckles rippled onto the floor, but still, nobody moved a little finger. Containment meant that anything and everything happening in the cell was nobody's problem. They were on their own down there. He watched the boy get up, and pick off the sheets on the beds, before ripping a part of it off with his teeth. He watched him bandage his knuckles the best he could, before he looked up at the camera.

Nick felt as if the boy was looking straight at him. And, as consequence, Clint unceremoniously flicked him the middle finger.

* * *

Three more days passed, and he saw the boy's knuckles turn purple, then blue, then black, and Nick slightly worried that the wounds would get infected.

His gut feeling told him that Clint Barton had seen worse, and when the scabs started falling off, revealing nothing but new skin and no broken bones, he felt relieved and confident. The boy would soon be able to be let out again.

Except that he failed even those expectations a couple of hours later.

Clint had taken the bed cover, bitten it, and started pulling the thread, slowly unweaving the material. Nick watched him for several hours, almost forgetting any other missions, wondering, trying to figure out what the boy was trying to do to with the fabric.

It was only during the night that followed that he got the answer. The boy had taken the thread and slowly weaved it around the cell, securing it around the bed, around the toilet, the sink, around the light, several times. The kid was lying on the mattress, sleeping.

Nick watched his clever weaving, trying to make some sense of it, until finally, one of the analysts came up with an answer that made him laugh.

“Precision work. It's what people do when they've broken their hands or fingers, to make sure the fingers don't go numb and get useless.”

Maybe they were giving the boy too much credit in what he did. Maybe he was really just a simpleton, who pretended to know the ways of the universe better than anyone else.

And, somehow, the precision work turned out to be more than that the next day, when he resumed working on the thread, on the knitting. His fingers were agile, even though the remnants of the bruises still showed. The weaving slowly took form, as Clint attached one end of the thread to the other, and trying the strength of the fabric slightly, he suddenly pulled on it.

As he did so, everything in the cell elevated with a groan and a hiss – the bed lifted, the light went out, the door handle broke off and the pipes of the toilet bent slightly inwards.

* * *

“Director Fury, you have to see this.”

Nick hadn't had much sleep that night – a crisis in Antwerp had to be avoided and they had only debriefed three hours prior – and he sure as hell didn't want to see anything.

However, Maria Hill's voice was strained, and, within a couple of seconds he was fully awake, and pulling the surveillance footage up on the computer they had installed in his quarters. He wished for the day he wouldn't have to wait for it to boot up for thirty seconds, but as soon as he saw what Hill wanted him to see, he felt his stomach turn.

It wasn't anything dreadful, not really. It was simply... strange.

Clint Barton and Jessica Drew sat on opposite sides of their cells, apparently silent, their eyes closed, but as he watched closer, he saw them hitting the back of their hands on the metal pipes of their toilet.

“Sir, it seems they've started communicating in the past two days,” Hill's voice resonated again, this time from the computer. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Fury sighed before he answered.

“What're they talking about?”

He didn't ask how. It was pretty obvious that they were using morse code, their hands alternating between faster hits and slower hits. They hadn't known that the Barton boy knew morse code. But it seemed like he was.

“About SHIELD. What they're doing here. How old they are. Where they come from.” She paused, and Nick understood that there was something more to this conversation that what he had just heard.

“About what they can _do_ ,” she finally finished, and this time, Fury sat upright in front of the screen. He pinched his nose harder, as if to make sure he was awake.

“So, let me get this straight. We've tried to get Barton to talk, we've tried to get Drew to talk, but they never even said a peep. And now they're talking, even though they know we actually know morse code and can read their conversation as if we were there?”

He paused.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

Standing up, and pushing the computer aside, he went straight for his closet – picking out whatever he needed to be able to be down in command in less than five minutes.

“Talk me through what we've learnt,” he instructed Hill, and he heard the hesitation in her voice right away.

“Sir, I believe it can wait until morning-”

“No, it can't. They might not do this again, and I need to be there to assess if we can intervene or not.”

Nick grabbed the eyepatch as he finished getting clothed. “Talk me through what they've said already,” before walking out of the room, securing the communication device in his ear. Hill's voice filled the silence as she started talking:

“Jessica was an agent for a German organisation which she found out had ties to the old days HYDRA – the same President Carter was working against after the second world war – and she's developped super powers since then. We knew about the speed, the strength and the shocks that she was able to send out when we intercepted her, but she also knows how to give off a scent that seems to attract men and revolt women. Probably explains why some of our agents seemed to have a hard time getting their job done and I and some others had to take over in her handling.”

Hill paused. If he was in the room, Fury would see her wet her lips. She always tensed up, but stayed professional, no matter what – she was still stupidly young, but she was the most efficient agent he had ever had to help him. Grooming her to take his place when he would retire (if he reached retirement, that is) had crossed his mind.

“She's also mentioned flight.”

Well, that came as a surprise. And, with that development, he almost felt as if things had changed. He crossed the final metres between him and the control room. “Talk to me about Barton, now,” he said as he nodded to her.

She turned the page on the notebook she had been taking notes on, frowning at her writing. “He's told her about his archery and knife throwing skills. Told her how he managed to break the silence treatment with her cell by dislocating some of the pipelines in the toilet system. He was the one to initiate the dialogue, actually, knocking on the pipes in a repeated “HELLO” pattern. Drew responded about 17 minutes after he started. He's talked about his acrobatic skills, his past. The kills he made. He actually went and admitted to murdering people while we were watching. He talked about the Circus of Crime, giving us enough information to track them down and dismantle them if we feel the need for it, actually.”

Nick lifted his eyes from the security screen he was looking at, to meet Hill's gaze. “I'm not sure what their tactic is, Sir, but it seems that they both started discussing valuable intel within a couple of hours.”

He frowned, wanting to go back to bed. The crisis in Antwerp had involved some members of the United Nations and some Rogue assassins, he did not want to babysit the two assets right now. However.

“In the morning, go down there and give them a deal. They go through basic training, behave and agree to at least consider SHIELD, or we move them from each other. If their partnership stands, suggest to them that if they want to, they can become partners once they're cleared for SHIELD duty.”

Hill's eyes widened. “Sir?”

“Do you really need me to repeat myself, Agent Hill?” he stated, as he took a deep breath.

“Brief Coulson and May on the situation. I'll see to the details of their intel in the morning. If they agree to go through basic training, we'll already get that thorn out of our foot.”

He stood up straighter, as he overlooked every single agent in the room. “I want their entire conversation written down for the future, to know their skills and their assets. I want someone to be able to mimic Barton's phrases and someone to be able to mimic Drew's phrases, so that we can go in and interrogate them if need be, by impersonating them.

I want these two agents on the training grounds as fast as possible.”

And with that, everyone got moving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaaah.  
> So? Surprised by Jessica? Ever since I read the Avengers Breakout novel where Clint and Jessica were partners, I couldn't shake the idea that their partnership probably came from their beginnings at SHIELD.  
> Next chapter will be up next Sunday, as usual, and I'll try to make it a bit more interesting. (Things are going to start picking up soon, with more characters and stuff!)  
> Let me know how you liked or disliked it!


	6. Peggy Carter – September 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1990 is a year that means a lot for SHIELD. For the world. For espionage. However, Peggy Carter isn't ready for this just yet. Too many things are converging, and with a young Jessica Drew bringing the banished name of HYDRA to SHIELD, she doesn't know if the work she has been doing is worth it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is such a late update, the last couple of days have been bad to me, and I couldn't sit down and write until I managed to clear my head.  
> I've been wondering whose POV I should be using in the future, and I supposed Peggy was only natural with what I want to do. I guess others will make one or two chapters, but I haven't decided yet.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“I hardly think that checking up on the two recruits Fury's found himself is relevant – we've got Bush and Gorbachev in Helsinki, and a crisis in Batticaloa. SHIELD has no time for special treatment.”

Giving Agents Melinda May and Maria Hill a stern look, Director Peggy Carter walked out of the meeting room as if the conversation had ended then and there.

However, the two younger agents followed her without a second though. “Ma'am, we really have to insist. This is the kid Fury preached to you about, the one he had you talk to the FBI about,” Hill started, as she flicked through her two files – one for the two of them. Peggy, however, wasn't slowing down.

“I don't care about his asset right now-” the Director tried, but Melinda May interrupted her by walking in front of her and blocking her way.

“Ma'am, you really should look at these files. I'm sure Bush and Gorbachev can behave themselves for the two minutes it'll take for you to read the important intel gathered on the two assets.”

Peggy stopped and watched May gravely. “If you step in my way again, Agent May, I will have you removed from the team. Are we understood?”

May nodded, before Hill handed her the two pages. Moving to the side to allow Peggy to keep on, she handed them on. “Clinton Francis Barton, codename Hawkeye, he's presented incredible hand to hand combat skills among other things, and Jessica Miriam Drew, codename Spiderwoman, she's presented incredible enhanced skills. She comes from an experimental faction of an orphaned HYDRA division-”

“HYDRA?”

Dead silence fell onto the three women, as they stopped in their tracks, Peggy turning around to grab Jessica Drew's file out of Hill's hands. She flicked through the pages as if it was of the utmost importance that she be updated on the situation immediately, and as she found the interesting chapter in the file – which hadn't been blacked out, as it was a 'for her eyes only' file – she almost stopped breathing.

At 69 years of age – or, rather, 71 she knew, since she had lied on her enlistment form – she wasn't the sort to be surprised anymore. But having HYDRA mentioned here, now? Right after that Alexander Pierce had managed to get Werner Reinhardt released from his life imprisonment sentence? Reinhardt, former SS and prominent member of HYDRA? Peggy frowned as she looked up at May and Hill.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked, her voice shaking. She had been fighting this her entire life – for herself, for her husband, for Steve. Not HYDRA. Not now.

“Only Fury, myself, Agent May, Agent Coulson and Agent Rumlow know, nobody else,” Hill replied, her voice equally dry. Peggy watched the two agents somberly, as she handed the file back to Hill.

“Black it out. I want nobody to know about this other than the six of us. Do not brief Director Pierce about this. Do not tell anyone about it.” She paused, as she stroked her hair back in place with a swift movement. “I will come down and look at these two new recruits, Hawkeye and Spiderwoman, but do not let anyone know. About anything related to this. Am I clear?”

There was no doubt as to what she meant, and neither of the two youngest agents seemed to have any questions. They quickly saluted before moving back to their quarters, to black out the file on Jessica Drew and erase all traces of HYDRA. After making sure that they had gone, Peggy turned around and headed straight for her office. She needed to talk to someone she could trust about this – someone she knew would understand her.

So, as soon as she made it to her desk, she pulled open the top drawer and took out one of Howard Stark's inventions. It was untraceable, unhackable and completely safe – safer than any means of communication SHIELD had. And it was like a Red Phone – only him and her could communicate with that line.

It took about three rings before Howard Stark's voice broke through, from the other end of the line.

“Peggy, dear! What's wrong and what can I do for you?”

What could he do for her? She didn't know. He was 73 years old. She was just a bit younger. What could they do against a Director, twenty years younger and more popular than she ever would be? Sure, Alexander Pierce was already in his fifties, but he was popular. He was loved – Nick Fury trusted him entirely, even the goddamn Nobel committee had attempted to crown him as one of their beloved Nobel Peace prize holders.

What could he do for her? She had no idea. But she had to talk to someone about this. Now. She had to do something. All the others would sneer at her, laugh at her – she was already on her way out, she knew it. She heard it in the corridors – too old. Too crazy. Too suspicious. Too worried. Howard Stark would understand. He'd follow her lead. She knew he would.

* * *

Three days later, Peggy Carter made her way down to the training rooms. She had received a memo indicating that the two soon-to-be assets Jessica Drew and Clint Barton were up for sparring sessions in training room #3, and that if she wanted to overlook the progress they had made, she would be more than welcome.

The ride down, down, down and further down the corridors of the Triskelion never made her feel safe. She had always liked the old SSR offices better. Windows. To look out, and breathe. Not these never-ending corridors, going further and further underground, like there was something to hide. In the years she had been here, seen the SSR turn into SHIELD, she had seen many great things.

This was one of the things she had advocated against.

When she came through the doors, some heads turned. Wondering why the Director of SHIELD – well, at least one of them – was down here. But they soon figured out why, for a little crowd had gathered around the two assets. The trainers and spectators parted in front of her, allowing her to get a front seat view.

It seemed to be 20 year old Clint Barton in the ring, up against Maria Hill herself. She had no idea what exact type of combat they were going for, but for all she could see, the blond boy seemed to share her battle tactics: blunt force, use everything to hurt your opponent. She did spot something else in him, and she remembered his circus training – he was bendy, he could do things that nobody else could. A gymnast. A true gymnast, that was what he was. He landed blow after blow, and she saw Maria Hill move further back into the corner of the ring, until finally Clint was all over her.

“Barton, knock it off,” May barked from the side of the ring. Her and Peggy made eyecontact, and the Agent nodded, before concentrating on the ring again. Hill was protecting herself with her arms up, crying out for him to stop. She was surrendering to him.

“BARTON!” May barked, louder this time, and everybody started moving when he didn't seem to stop – he had been sparring with about everybody in this room, Jessica Drew herself, who was currently sitting a little bit off, minding her own business (flanked by Brock Rumlow himself). Hill's voice broke out again, and this time the pain was real.

Peggy arched her eyebrow as she crossed her arms, making her way to a metal collapsible chair, sitting down as if this was a freak show she had privately been invited to. She saw Melinda May haul herself up to the mat, crawl under the ropes, and go straight for the Barton boy, with all the force in the world. Hill had fallen to her ass, and she had hidden her head against her knees, protecting herself with her arms.

Barton, however, didn't seem intent on stopping his assault – not even when May hit him hard in the back with a kick. He didn't even seem phased. In her mind, Peggy Carter remembered the abusive father that had been mentioned in the file. She remembered the accidents at the circus, what Buck Chisholm had gone on record and told.

It was going to take more than a kick to the back to bring him down.

Soon, the ring was filled with three more agents, but May put her hands up. “Don't touch him,” she growled, as she circled around, Barton very keen on ignoring her. Hill was bleeding now, but so was Barton – his fists had opened up again, and Peggy rolled her eyes. So much drama.

May kicked him again, and he still didn't nudge. So, she bent down, and with a swift spin on one foot, she kicked out his feet, although he had cleverly anchored himself and equally grounded his weight. He stopped his fall by catching one of the ropes, but as soon as he turned around to face his new attacker, while other agents were pulling Hill off the mat, he was met by Melinda's thighs that brought him down.

As they both fell, May moved around him and pulled his arm back, locking it with her legs, keeping him in a submissive hold. The boy called out - “Let go of me you fucking bitch!” and Peggy rolled her eyes yet again. She saw Jessica Drew get up from her position and move towards the ring, followed by a very worried Brock Rumlow.

“Oh no, I won't,” May said, her teeth gritted, and her eyes determined. She pulled back on Clint's arm, and he screamed in pain. But still, he tried to kick himself out, trying to worm his way out of the hold, much in a way a contortionist would. He was trying to ease himself out, twisting his shoulder almost out of shape but it didn't seem to be that which hurt him. It was May's firm grip.

“Stop. Moving.” May said again, but Barton just growled, as he tried to bend back, trying to hurt her back.

Peggy looked around, unimpressed, wondering why nobody had tased him or used a sedative on him yet. But, then, as she watched the other agents, she heard a loud crack, and this time, Clint Barton screamed as if he had been branded by fire.

Her eyes focused on the boy again, and he fell limp, now teary eyed, and May had let go of him, sitting back as the boy tried to roll to the side, clutching his arm. Which was, Peggy noticed, absolutely not supposed to bend like that.

“Agent May, if you please?” she called, and others took over the handling of the boy. May made her way down, as Hill was escorted out of the room to medical, her face bruised, her eyes already swelling up. Peggy had seen enough boxing matches to know that it was going to hurt.

“Ma'am.”

“I read that you shot him through the leg, and now you broke his arm. Are you going clockwise or counterclockwise on him, because it does look like you're out to render the boy completely useless,” Peggy stated, firmly and cooly. She saw May frown, and knew that the agent didn't understand.

“Did Hill volunteer into the ring?” A nod. “Did she surrender to him?” A nod. “Then, you should think, why didn't he stop?” Silence.

She pointed to the back of the boy, who was being walked out, escorted down to the same place as Hill. “Have you got any clue of where this boy comes from?” she asked, and May's eyes suddenly changed. “This kid has been through all kinds of shit, and the first time he looses it in a sparring fight, you break his arm?”

“Ma'am, I was just-”

“I know you were just. We're supposed to train these people, not break them. They're supposed to understand we are trying to help them. I remember Fury telling me that this Clint Barton could become one of his greatest assets if he were ever to join this organisation, and the way I see it, you just made it even harder for him to choose our side. Do you have any idea how much time, talk and therapy it's going to take to get him to even consider?” Peggy was almost fuming. May seemed to grow smaller at the scolding.

That's when Peggy noticed Jessica, who was watching her curiously. “You, Jessica Drew?” she asked, dismissing May by suddenly diverting her attention. The young black haired girl walked around the ring and up to Peggy Carter.

“Miss Carter, ma'am,” the girl greeted, and Peggy was thrilled to hear another British accent. Sure, she'd read the file, but she knew that being born in one country did not mean having the accent.

“What do you think happened in the ring today?” she asked. Rumlow moved up to talk at May about Barton.

“I think that Clint- uh, Barton lost it. He went into some sort of fit and he forgot where he was.”

“Ah, yes.” Peggy turned to May, who stopped talking to Rumlow the moment she saw Peggy turn. “See? This kid gets it. Now, Miss Drew. What would you have done to interrupt the fight?”

“I think I would have pulled Hill out from under the ropes and tried to douse Clint with something, like water or anything else that's cold.” The girl paused. “Cold usually works.” Then, she lowered her gaze, looking down at the floor as if to avoid Peggy's gaze. “He told me he sometimes has these explosive rage bouts.”

Nodding, Peggy put her hands on her hips. “Has SHIELD looked into this?” she asked, knowing that May was still listening.

“No, ma'am,” came the reply, and she turned around, turning her back to Jessica and watching both Rumlow and May carefully. “Get him to talk to a psychiatrist about this. He has some anger management to go through, and with a past like his, I'm surprised none of you have seen this coming. Has his behaviour in containment and custody showcased any sort of anger or other violent impulsions?”

She knew the answer to that, but she wanted to know if the other agents knew. When they nodded, she pursed her lips. “Now, get out of here.”

The two agents looked at each other, and when she clicked her heel on the floor, they turned their backs and walked out, leaving Peggy and Jessica alone. When they were out of the room, Peggy turned to Jessica.

“Now, Jessica. I want you to tell me what you know. About us, about where you come from. About whether you think you can trust us.” Peggy took a deep breath, and went back to the seat she had been sitting on earlier, and invited Jessica to do the same. “I want you to tell me who in this organisation you trust and who you don't trust, and why.”

* * *

“How is the boy?” was Peggy's first question as she headed down to the medical ward. She didn't ask about Hill – she knew she had been cleared out again a couple of hours prior – but the boy was still isolated in a room.

“He's stable, and refuses to talk about what happened,” the young lady answered, and Peggy sighed.

“Understandable. Were you briefed on the situation, miss?”

“Yes, I was. I've been monitoring Barton's behavior since I was cleared for the team, ma'am. Fury thinks that he will need someone regular to help him and Jessica through basic training, and he thought I was the best qualified.” That answer made Peggy smile.

“Well, why would he think that?” she questioned, a curious glance in her eyes.

“He thinks that because I'm ex-military, the same age as Barton and a fine analyst, I would be the best person to assess whether or not we are making progress on him. He stated that he trusts Jessica Drew to come around since she volunteered into SHIELD, but he doesn't think that Barton will come kindly, unless he has a stable presence here.”

Peggy put her hand out for the file the young lady was holding. The girl looked at it sheepishly, before handing it over. Going through the pages rapidly, Peggy nodded at the notes scribbled inside. It seemed more like what Clint Barton needed right now than being tested for his limits on a sparring mat.

“You take good care of him,” Peggy said. “We need him to come round. Fury needs him to come round. We've invested a lot of time in this kid, and I belive that Fury is right. He can become one of our greatest Agents if given the time and the incentive.

All he needs is to realize that we are the good guys. But, if he doesn't want to cooperate, we will cut him loose, as we promised him. It was part of the deal. I suppose you know that.”

She smiled, before she handed the file back to the young girl.

“How old are you?”

“I'm 23, ma'am,” the girl replied. Peggy couldn't help but think that she looked older. She had the eyes of someone who had seen too much already. But somehow, the eyes also shone of something wicked, something childish and gentle. Maybe something Clint Barton would need.

“What's your name?”

“Laura, ma'am.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So?   
> What are your thoughts?
> 
> I hope you're ready for next week, because I have some great things in store for you.


	7. Jessica Drew - Late October 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having been in SHIELD custody long enough, it's now time for assessment. What can their two new agents do? What are they worth? But first, while Clint's broken arm still heals, the mental assessments come as a surprise to Jessica.

When she had first arrived at SHIELD, Jessica Drew hadn't actually thought about the consequences. She had fled from her past, from what had made her the thing she was today. She had fled, in the hopes to find a greater good and fight for them.

She had expected to be treated like an experiment, and instead... Well, instead she was being treated like a soldier. More or less. She didn't know why, but it felt wrong. For her, at least. Because she wasn't. She wasn't a soldier, she was just a girl with powers – she had been injected with such a cocktail of different things by her father that she wasn't even sure what was going on... but then again. Maybe she didn't know what was happening.

However, after surrendering herself to SHIELD, she had found comfort in another human being. That is, Clint Barton. He was this scrawny, silly, stubborn kid who refused to let SHIELD do their thing. Why they had ended up becoming friends? She didn't know. Maybe because both of them had felt trapped. Because both of them had opened up to each other?

She didn't know, but she liked him. Now, however, she was being kept from him, though, and she didn't like it. They were keeping them separate because of the mental, psychological, physical and practical assessments they needed to make.

They needed to learn how great her powers expanded, how much she could do and would do. But more than anything, she realized, they wanted to know what Clint could do. She had learnt from his own mouth that he never finished high school, and that he was just a kid who could aim well, but from what she heard from Agents Morse, May and Hill, there was more to it than that.

SHIELD had gone out of its way to get their hands on Clint, and she sort of understood why. He had this strange habit of seeing patterns, his intuition being different than most, but also because he seemed to be looking for a genuine reason to join SHIELD. He didn't have anything. She'd read his file – and he had read hers, she knew – and she had seen that he was just a circus kid. Nothing else. A murderer, true, but not a coldblooded assassin. And she could believe that he was looking for something better in this world.

Or at least that is what she thought he was doing. For all she knew, he was just twenty years old and a pain in the ass to the Agents handling him.

Especially now that his arm was still healing from being broken by May. (He hadn't shut up about it for a week, after it had happened, but then he had started throwing and aiming with his other hand. That had revealed that he was equally good with both hands, and that he had an equally good coordination, even though one entire arm was useless).

(She'd seen him spar. They had actually made him spar with another Agent, and he had almost kicked the guy's ass with one arm less, until the senior agents had cut out the training session.)

The mental assessment, though, that was what she was looking forward to the most. Because, Clint seemed like the intelling kind of guy, except he sometimes said so much bullshit you wouldn't think he would make it out in one piece.

Jessica thought, that when the mental assessments started, she would get to know exactly who Clint Barton was.

And that is exactly what happened.

* * *

The first day, and their first task, was going to be supervised by Hill and Fury himself. Jessica noticed that Peggy Carter was keeping a close eye on them whenever she walked by the window of the teaching room they had been asked to go into.

It turned out, that what she expected to be this great and grand IQ test, mental training or other assessment of their skills, was nothing more than a General Knowledge interview. Protocol was as follows: Fury would ask a question to her, let her answer, ask a question to Clint, let him answer, and then Hill would ask a question.

It seemed like they were going to try to assess what they knew of the world they lived in. If anything, Jessica was sure that she would beat out Clint on the facts and dates. (She wasn't intending on being mean, but, she knew that he hadn't had an exactly complete school development, and there were some things that she was sure she knew better than him.)

As it turns out, she was absolutely right.

“Barton,” Fury's voice snapped, and Clint lifted his head from the table he had been resting it on. He didn't seem pretty phased. Jessica suspected that it was because he had never had the stress of exams or graduation to flip out over, but she remembered. All those hours, crying and stressing out because of a damn test? How many times had she wished she hadn't needed to go to school and learn all of this stupid shit?

“Can you tell me the dates of the two world wars?”

Jessica arched her eyebrow, wondering if this simple question was actually something Fury was seriously asking Clint. However, when she turned her head to look at his reaction, she saw that he was frowning. He pushed himself up, against the back of the chair and looked down at his fingers. She couldn't hear what he was whispering to himself, but she thought she heard him discussing dates. (Internal monologue gone external. Great.)

“Uh,” Clint started, as he gazed up from his fingers. “First one's beginning of this century, yeah? Something 1915 to 1920. And, second one's twenty years later, I think, so I'd go with 1940 to 1945. Since they weren't longer than five years, right?”

If she didn't see Fury's look, she would have scoffed. Simple stuff, everybody knew the dates to the two world wars, right? Everybody?

“Drew, can you tell Barton the dates, please?” Fury stated, as he turned his head to her. Clint was still frowning, trying to remember the actual dates.

“First world war was from 1914 to 1918, and second world war was from 1939 to 1945.” She nodded, knowing that she must have nailed it. Clint shrugged at the correct answers, and Fury took a step back to let Hill ask her own question.

This time, Hill started with Jessica. “Drew, why was the year 1816 called the 'year without summer' in most places in the world?”

Wait what? Jessica frowned, and leaned a bit forward in her chair. “Excuse me?” This wasn't something important. This wasn't something that she had learned, was it? She didn't remember anything about 1816 – Frankenstein was written, that's all she could remember. Nothing about a year without a summer. She shook her head.

“Because it was really cold, ma'am?” she replied. It seemed like the most adequate answer, yes, a very simple one, but she had no better reply than that. She had no idea. She turned her head to see Clint frowning, his eyes half closed.

“Barton, can you tell me why?” Hill asked again, as she wrote something down on a pad. Clint seemed concentrated, as he was tapping his foot against the floor, repeatedly hitting his index on the table.

“A volcano eruption in India, right? Blew a lot of ash in the air, made the air yellower. That's why that British guy, Turner, a painter, right? Yeah, that's why his paintings are very yellow?”

Jessica was now surprised. How the hell did he know that? But more importantly, why did he know that but not the dates of the world wars? She looked at Hill for a further explanation.

“The year without a summer was indeed caused by a volcanic eruption in 1915 in Indonesia, which sent ash up into the upper atmosphere and caused a decline in sunlight passing through, and meant that the temperature in the world dropped.” And with a nod, Hill stepped back to let Fury forth again.

Jessica was baffled: how the hell did Clint know that? Was there a useful knowledge to that information? How had he learnt it? He wasn't educated, and it seemed like a very specific knowledge. Fury had a tiny, little smile on his lips as he moved closer to them, and Jessica frowned.

“What formula would you use to calculate a bullet's trajectory and plan out a mission? Barton?” Fury's eye turned to Clint, who just shrugged.

“I dunno, but I'd just consider if it's windy, raining, how far the target it and what sort of a mission it is – kill or not kill. Depends on the result you want.” Clint had stopped tapping his index on the table, and Jessica realized that this was what he liked. It was a different sort of maths than the one she was used to, but she could see that he knew how to deal with this. She was sure he would be able to take shots otherwise deemed impossible.

“Drew, anything to add?” Fury said, and Jessica bit her lower lip. Was she going to add anything? The first thought that popped into her head felt like the right answer.

“Speed of an object is how fast it's moving, right? Speed equals distance over time, so I suppose, that?”

She locked eye contact with him, and he took a step back, before letting Hill come forth again.

“Drew, do you think that some people will commit murder if they are pushed by outer forces and believe they are not truly responsible for their actions?”

Jessica's mouth fell open, and she frowned. “No, of course not. If they realize that what they are doing is bad and that they might risk killing someone, they will stop. That's the basis of human behavior,” she replied, and saw Hill rise her eyebrow, surprised.

“Barton?” the senior agent asked, and Clint shrugged – again. It was as if he didn't care, as if there were no consequences to this test. This quiz. Whatever it was.

“Dunno, but I think that if you push people enough to do something and tell them it's the thing to do, they will do it. If you take their conscience away from they, people can do really mean things even if they don't believe it is,” was his reply, and Jessica scoffed. She saw him turn his head with the expressive 'why?' in his eyes, and she just smirked.

“No, that's not possible. It's like people are bound to realize that, say, if you put someone on the street and play on a Stradivarius some Mozart masterpiece or whatever, they will stop up and listen to it because it is that great.” Clint just grimaced and bent forward onto the table, falling on top of it like an octopus trying to cover the most ground.

“Barton's right, Drew. Stanley Milgram conducted a series of experiments on human behaviour given certain conditions and found that test subjects would go as far as potentially killing another human being if they were told repeatedly that it wouldn't matter.”

Hey no, that wasn't fair! Jessica was about to reply when Clint just let out a huff of satisfaction. Fury stood forward from his position and put down the paper he had been writing on. Jessica turned her head in frustration and saw Peggy Carter standing in the doorway behind them, and she locked eye contact with her. Fury broke it by speaking up.

“That's it, the first test is done,” he said and Jessica shook her head.

“That's it? Just four questions? Four actually pretty weird questions? You don't have anything else to ask us?” she stated, almost mad at them, but Clint just got up and walked out of the room. He moved past Peggy Carter without really acknowledging her, and Hill just rolled her eyes.

“Miss Drew, we are trying to do an assessment of your moral compass and general knowledge. The fact that you seem more distressed about this test than Barton tells us that he is less enclined to think that knowledge and intel is important if he feels it's important to give it some thought. You'll be asked to participate in another test later this afternoon, so be ready when you are done training or whatever it is you're doing,” Hill said as she picked up Fury's papers and walked out of the door, starting a discussion with Carter. Jessica followed her, reluctant to let go of her seat. Fury hadn't really moved from his spot, and she felt as if he was trying to get a read of her.

“What?” she barked at him, and he smiled at her.

“Why is it so important for you that you know the replies to these seemingly random questions?” he asked, and Jessica pushed her seat back, but did not rise from it.

“I don't know. It felt like I would have the upper hand, you guys told me it was general knowledge. I should know this, I should be better at this than him.”

“So you think that this is a competition, miss Drew?”

Well, she wouldn't put it like that. “No. I don't think that. It's just that he's never set foot in a high school, he's never been asked to remember a lot of mathematical formulas and-”

“So you think you are better than him because you have a cultural background that will allow you to make right calls?” he asked again, and this time Jessica shook her head.

“No, I don't think I am better than him. It's just... He's a circus boy. He can hit things from far away, so what?” she replied, feeling a bit frustrated, and finally pushing herself out of her chair.

“Miss Drew,” he started as she began moving to the back, heading for the door, “I don't want Agent Barton for his personal knowledge on history and facts, I want him because he will be able to see things and make calls we wouldn't think of because of the background we all have.”

But she didn't listen to the end of his speech, because she walked out of the door right there and then.

Bullshit test.

* * *

A couple of hours later, they sat her in front of a screen. It was on, and showed a parking lot.

Hill stood behind her, Fury having gone to do something else. “We are going to ask you to look at this footage and help us. In this situation, two black Cadillacs have been sighted in this parking lot, but one of them is stolen. I want you to identify the thief and tell us which of the two people coming out of the shop it is, and then I want you to tell us why.”

She nodded, and the screen started moving. She saw several people, walking to and from their vehicles. Then, on the upper corner of the screen, she saw a white guy, probably end of his twenties, come out of the shop with a handful of bags. He was eating out of a bag, probably chips or something, and went straight for one of the cars.

Jessica concentrated on him, and noticed that as he got into the car, he threw the apparently empty bag of chips into the vehicle. Strange.

However, as he was getting into the car, she also saw another person get out of the shop, this time, someone of latino inheritage, and she noticed that he had neck tattoos and was wearing a chain as a bracelet. She saw him throw things out in the bin and head to the car, before climbing into it.

The recording stopped there and she sat back in the chair, trying to figure out what was going on. Which of them? Did she see the clue? Was there even a clue? She noticed, in the reflection of the screen, that hill was looking at her watch and realized that she was being timed.

“I think,” Jessica tried, and she frowned again, “Can I see it again?” she asked, and Hill obliged by replaying the scene.

Jessica saw it again, clearly, and this time she knew. “It's the first guy,” she replied and Hill nodded.

“Why?” was the question that came.

“Because he threw his trash in the car and the other guy threw his trash in the trashcan,” she replied, still thoughtful. That other guy didn't look pretty mean, but he still looked like the kind of person who would steal a car- “Or I don't know. Maybe it's the other guy.”

“Why do you think it's him?” Hill asked, and Jessica raised her shoulders, not knowing.

“I don't know, but I still think it was the first guy.”

* * *

As it turned out, it had indeed been the first guy. A couple of minutes after, she met with Clint in the corridor out of the room, and talked with him about the morning's developments.

“I'm sorry I got excited during the quiz,” she said and Clint smiled that stupid smile of his that she liked. “How's the arm?” she asked, and he showed her the bandage.

“Good, actually. Laura's been taking care of me, and also looking over my results, so that's cool,” he replied, and Jessica smiled. She had talked to Laura a little bit, she seemed like a good person. The kind of thing Clint needed, to be honest.

“How'd you do in the car park test?” he asked, and Jessica smiled.

“Got it right,” she replied, proudly. “You?”

“Me too, almost right away!” His smile made her smile too, but she couldn't help but feel a little bit competitive towards him. (After all, she was actually a little bit better than him. Or had to be, somehow.)

(But, then, maybe she was wrong.)

* * *

Three days later, the third test came in. This time, it was Coulson and May supervising them, and Jessica felt as if Clint was going to bounce out of the room. She knew he had broken Coulson's nose and that May was the reason why his arm was still recovering (and why he had a bullet wound in his leg, he had told her about it).

“Today is information extraction,” Coulson stated, and they both nodded. Jessica wasn't sure what it meant, but she was going to see Clint do his thing before she did. “We have managed to find two poachers and mercenaries from Namibia, and the local authorities have entrusted us in finding out where their funding is coming from. Barton will go first and try to get information from the other one, and Drew will go second and get information from the second one.”

May smiled, before she added that, “Don't worry, they won't bite,” as she moved away to let Clint into the room with the poacher.

Jessica had seen Clint angry. She had seen him frustrated and almost too angry to actually talk (hell, that had been the reason why May had needed to break his arm because he was going to kill Hill if she hadn't), but she saw that he was seething. That's when she remembered that he had worked in a circus – with animals. Probably animals that these poachers had killed. What could they have done? Elephants? Rhinos? Zebra? Cheetah? Probably elephant and rhino for the ivory.

Clint sat down in the chair in front of the poacher. “So, you're a poacher, uh?” Clint's slight accent slipped up as he crossed his fingers in front of the poacher.

“You've probably killed loads of animals for money – elephants? Rhinos? Zebras? Gazelle?” The other person didn't seem to react, and Jessica knew that this was going to be a long session.

As Clint was talking to the prisoner, Coulson came up to her and stood next to her. “Wanna go in with the next one and see which one of you can do it best?” he asked, and Jessica took the bait. (Looking back, she realized it might not have been the cleverest thing to do.)

So, she went into the room and did her thing.

* * *

“So, I have to tell you that with both your information, we have enough to lock these guys away and dismantle the poaching organization. The local government has been alerted of the corruption in their ranks and it will be dealt with accordingly.”

Wait. What? Jessica hadn't gotten that much intel out of her guy – he had worked for some rich people, they were going after farms and other 'animal paradises' as he had put it. He had killed lots of animals, and he'd told her all about where the money came from, but she hadn't managed to get any associates' names or anything else out of him. Then how the hell had Clint managed that?

Coulson seemed to feel her surprise, and he smiled at her. “Barton used several methods often witnessed in psychic scams and managed to get information out of his poacher. He used shotgunning, Barnum statements, and all those other sorts of things you use in a cold reading.”

Jessica looked over her shoulder at Clint who had chosen to go sit in a corner. “Why is he sitting over there?” she asked, and Coulson's lower lip wobbled before he replied.

“He took the kills of the animals very personally and hit the poacher on the side of the jaw with an uppercut that broke the bone,” was the reply she got. Oh, so that was why May was nowhere to be seen.

Jessica nodded, before she moved to the back of the room and let herself down next to Clint.

“So, a psychic, uh?” she asked, and he looked up at her, with a deep sadness in his eyes.

“There is no such thing as psychics,” he replied, and she smiled.

“I know.” She paused, as she turned her head and saw Coulson nod at them before walking out of the room. “How'd you learn how to be a fake psychic then?”

“A friend in the circus,” was his reply, and she almost laughed out loud. A friend in the circus.

“Was that how you knew the volcano thing?”

“Yeah,” he replied and he lowered his head again. “I know you feel like you're better than me,” he then stated and Jessica felt surprised.

“No, I don't-”

“Yeah, you do. You think that because I'm just a kid from a circus I don't deserve to be here,” he replied, leaning his head against the wall he was sitting against.

“You've got other skills they don't teach in school,” she tried, poking her way into safer grounds. “Intuition, information extraction. I know Fury wants you bad on their team, and even Peggy Carter – Peggy 'I knew Captain fucking America' Carter, Clint – wants you on her side too.” She paused, before going on.

“It's not that you don't know the historical facts, those will come. I'm sure they'll ask you to learn up on your shit, and they'll ask me to learn stuff too. I read your file, you read mine, so we both know where we come from. I'm not better than you just because I can blast energy from my hands. I suck at people. I suck at taking decisions, and fast thinking.”

Clint lowered his head again. “Look, Clint, listen to me. These guys have been fighting to get their hands on you for years. You managed to stay out of their hands until your brother made a deal, right? Can you imagine how bad it is that they need you?”

He shrugged, and Jessica poked at his arm.

“You're not a worthless circus kid, and I think Nick Fury sees that too. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone through sky and dust to find you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooooooo? How did you like it?
> 
> Writing this was a bit hard, since I had to try and make both Jessica and Clint equally good at what SHIELD is looking for, and I skipped some things that I had in mind when I began writing the chapter. (I may have found inspiration to some things by watching Brain Games with my cousins on television, so any likeness to that program is actually not accidental. Sorry.)
> 
> Stanley Milgram's experiment is really interesting, as is the entire thing behind the year 1816 (and the thing about Turner's paintings is true as well). I had to throw some sort of silly knowledge into this fic, and I hope you learnt a little bit of it, haha.
> 
> I hope you liked it! I suppose that next week will be physical assessment and that you will be as excited about it as I am! Let me know how you liked it and if you have any other comments you want to tell me (or yell at me), then please do so too!


	8. Laura (????) - January 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a mental assessment, it's time for a deeper psychological assessment of Clint Barton. However, his adventures within the studies of his mind turn out to be more difficult than expected.  
> Or, as we say, Laura reports to Peggy Carter about Clint Barton's progress within SHIELD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. Hear me out! This chapter ended up being 8k long when I finished writing it, so I decided to split it up into 2 chapters of about 4k each, and this means that I'll post the first part today (Saturday) and the second part tomorrow (Sunday). Then there'll be a little bit of a cliffhanger for you guys!  
> I hope you enjoy this!

“Ma'am?”

Peggy Carter's eyes looked up from the document she was currently reading and a smile widened on her lips when she recognized Laura.

“Ah, yes, Laura! Come on in.”

Laura moved into the office, carefully closing the door behind her. She carried a bag over her shoulder, holding all her notes, all the observations and most importantly, all the transcriptions concerning Clint Barton's latest therapy sessions.

Following Carter's instructions, and after assessing his mental abilities (more like testing to see if he had enough IQ to fit into a team, Laura thought), SHIELD and Nick Fury had decided to hand him over to a psychiatrist to look into his anger management and his past. To ensure his safety and the safety of those around him, they said. Because he was a danger to himself and to the others, they said. (Laura called bullshit, but she wasn't supposed to comment on anything. Especially if the orders came from up high).

However, Peggy Carter had asked her to keep an eye on Clint for her and to tell her how progress was going. In this case, the last three months had been... Well. Tedious. For both herself and for Clint. (But, she thought, Clint had taken the worst of it).

“Sit down,” Peggy stated, and Laura obliged as she pulled several files out, neatly marked by date and location.

“So, tell me. What has our soon to be Agent Barton been up to?”

“He's uh- He's- he's been doing okay.” Laura paused as she pulled out the filed with the oldest date – beginning 27th of October 1990 and ending the 17th of November of the same year. She looked up sheepishly at Peggy before handing her the file. Laura didn't need to look at it to know what was in it. She had read it all, made notes, observations, and she knew that Peggy was counting on her to retell what had happened.

“He's currently under Dr. Beckett's care, since he's gone through Dr. Clemens, Dr. Hampton and Dr. Montgomery.”

“He's shifted psychiatric supervisor four times?”

“Well, yes. The file you're carrying in your hand is the one with all the notes and reports filed by Dr. Clemens, who was the first to see Clint as a therapist.”

“Do tell me about his progress,” Carter instructed, as she pulled the file open and revealed the first page of the first report Dr. Peter Clemens had written on the subject Clinton Francis Barton, age 19.

Taking a deep breath, Laura raised an eyebrow as she sat back into the chair comfortably. This was going to be quite the tale.

* * *

Introducing Clint Barton to his therapist was an easy task. Laura had been asked by Nick Fury to introduce Clint to their specialist in new agents, Dr. Clemens. Laura knew him from far away, as she had seen him deal with some other newer agents – Jessica Drew was under Clemens care, and Brock Rumlow had been under his care as well in his shift from military to SHIELD.

It seemed perfectly logical that Clint would go under this man's apparent firm grip on the human mind and open up to him, like the others had.

Unfortunately, Clint Barton had other ideas in mind. As Laura read the first report, she realized that this was going to be either a) very entertaining, b) a very big problem, c) both at the same time.

* * *

Guided into the therapist's office, Clint looked around the room, his arms crossed across his chest. He had been walking with very stiff movements, and had only agreed to walk into the office because Laura (and Nick. And Maria. And Jessica) had told him that it would do him good. Especially after his arm had finally healed from Melinda's treatment. He was also not limping anymore, but Laura knew that he would never forget or forgive Melinda for shooting him in the leg.

“Sit now, Mister Barton,” Clemens said as he moved to a comfortable (and expensive) design chair. It was a Swan chair, by some fancy Danish designer, and he had requested it specifically.

Obliging, Clint sat down on the couch and spread his legs, resting his elbows on the calves and entertwining his fingers. Looking up at the therapist with those sharp eyes of his, he measured his doctor's worth before locking away and looking up at the ceiling, appearing uninterested.

“So, Mister Barton- or can I call you Clint?” A pause. Clint shrugged, and the doctor went on. “Clint, my name is Peter Clemens. I am here to guide you into SHIELD and help you with anger issues, as I've been told by some of your friends around here.”

Clint, still refusing to look down from the ceiling, refused to reply as he simply half closed one eye, arching an eyebrow. This was going to be a difficult session, Clemens thought.

“Let's start with the basic things. I've been following your progress for quite a while, and read your file. I am very interested in knowing what made you join SHIELD, but I am more interested in learning where all that bottled up anger comes from,” the doctor started, until Clint suddenly looked down at the doctor, a sudden bright smile on his face.

“I see you're willing to share this with me,” the doctor went on, and Clint nodded. (In retrospect, as she watched the tapes, Laura thought that this should have been their cue to begin with).

“Yeah, sure doc',” Clint started, and he leaned back into the couch, spreading himself as much as he could – his arms to the side, and he lifted his feet from the floor onto the little table in between him and the therapist. “There was this time when I was in the circus and I'd found a nice flintstone in a riverstream, and I'd thought yeah! This is a good material for arrowheads, because, you know, these were what I made them off, the old fashioned way, and so I went with that flintstone onto another bigger stone, must've been some granite or something, and I threw the stone at the other stone and it shattered. Into a million fucking pieces. Some of them bounced back at me, and then cut me on my leg – like you know how flint is super razor sharp right? So, I picked up some of the other pieces and I threw them onto the bigger stone again and-”

“Uhm, Clint, yes, I was thinking more about where your anger comes from.”

“No problem, just ask me a question,” Clint provocatively replied by scratching his temple, as if he was completely unphased by the questioning.

“I've read that you went through some traumas as a child, with partial hearing loss inflicted by your father in a fit of rage. Do you think that this has some repercussions today, as you have witnessed anger and violence from a very early age?” If it hit any sort of chord inside Clint, the young archer didn't show it. He put his hand up to his lips, and started biting at the nail on his thumb. (Clemens had written 'sign of anxiousness' on his report, but Laura knew it was just to be an ass that Clint had gone it).

With the distinctive sound – CLICK – of his teeth breaking the nail off, he started chewing on it, faking concentration. “I don't know, I mean being angry's a lot like being in love. It's a lot like a lot of things, you see animals everyday being angry – look at wolves, they snarl and they bite and growl at each other all the time, but it's a pack thing. I worked with a wolf pack in the circus, y'know, and their tamer – some guy from Hungary – taught me a couple of tricks about the anger of the animals. Like, the wolves, yeah, they were 7, but then one of them got cubs, and so there were 10 at one point, but anyway, this alpha male would always snarl and make the others keep their positions. There was one point, in one of the shows where the wolves were supposed to pull him down and pretend to eat him, and he had meat under his clothes and-”

“Yes, Clint, I understand, but-”

“No, let me tell you this. He'd trained each wolf to a particular piece of meat on his body so each wolf knew which piece to get, but you see, one night one of the wolves got angry, y'know, and so it went for the alpha male's piece of meat, even though we always released the alpha first because that's how the hierarchy in the pack works, and so there was a fight and people started crying in the audience because they thought that he was going to die, but he didn't because he understood the wolves' anger and he managed to secure them.” He'd stopped chewing on the bitten off nail as he spoke, but now Clemens could hear the distinctive clicking of teeth whenever he bit the nail into smaller parts, and Clint looked as if the fact that he had just stated was the most important and vital information in his life.

“So, wolves. You feel like a wolf? That you are a member of a pack and that you need to survive in the pack?”

“I don't know, you tell me doc',” was the reply Clemens got, but Laura knew, that even though Clemens didn't see it, and seemed put off by the fact Clint had just shoved in his face, that Clint's first thought of wolves didn't come from anger. But from understand something unknown. Clint had learnt to understand a behavior normal people wouldn't understand through his experience with the wolves, and Laura had written that down in her own personal report.

However, Clint hadn't been done with the doctor just yet. “Now, doc, tell me something. SHIELD, right? They're the good guys. Well, I say they, but they're actually not you, they're the ones up on top – the ones who want me. They tell you why?”

Obviously shaken by this turn of events, Dr. Clemens shook his head and wrote something down on his pannel.

“No, they haven't told me why. But, I'm supposed to find out by interviewing you. Asking you about your past, and how you feel.”

There was a silence then, and Clint just watched his therapist keenly, his eyes measuring him up. Laura thought that perhaps, Clint had been through several of these as a child. Before and after the death of his parents. To be honest, Clint had a pretty rough childhood, and she was actually impressed he hadn't fallen into crime more than he had. (Even though killing people counted as a pretty big crime, for SHIELD it was... well. Not some of the worst offences you could be doing).

“You tell me, you're the one who read Freud and Jung and whoever else wrote books about the subconscious,” Clint snapped, letting his head fall back onto the couch, refusing to look at the doctor this time.

“Well, unless you answer my questions, I can't tell you, Clint. Let's try again, right? You brought up the wolves because you feel a connection to that animal?”

“Hey, no, wait, now that I think about it, I think it's the Hawk that impressed me most. Y'know, there was this guy in the early days of the circus, he had a bunch of bird of prey, hawks, redhawks, falcons, eagles, man he had this magnificent bald eagle, it just felt like Captain America was right there with us under the tent when that eagle flew around, and whenever the hawks would mold and loose their feathers, I went to fetch them. Did you ever see those old vintage posters for the circus? Man, my costume was fancy, I had real hawk feathers on it.”

Pause. Clint laughed out loud as he thought back to something, and Clemens scribbled something down at the pad he was holding in his hand.

“They call me Hawkeye, man. I can tell you right here and now that you wrote Steve Rogers instead of Captain America on your pad. Is that a thing around here, SHIELD? Because this was the SSR, right? Or something? Where Cap worked before he turned into an icecube?”

If anything, Clemens had to give the kid some credit – he knew how to divert the attention off him quite brilliantly. But then again... He had been in a circus. He had probably worked with magicians – keep the attention elsewhere while they do something else. Clemens' hands suddenly focused on Clint's hands. The archer was drumming his thumbs against his calves now, and he didn't seem to realize.

“We don't talk about Captain America around here, Clint. I think we should end the session here? What do you think?” the doctor asked, and Clint shrugged – again. He really didn't care about this, did he?

* * *

“I see that Dr. Clemens here hadn't made any assumptions or deducted anything for Barton's behavior, nor the reasons for his anger outbursts,” Peggy said as Laura finished telling the tale of Clint Barton and Peter Clemens' three sessions together. They had been a weekly thing, and they had ended with the last one on the 17 th of November, more specifically because Clemens had asked that they present Clint to his esteemed colleague, Dr. Hampton.

Laura smiled, smugly, as she pulled out a report card on the three first sessions Clint had been through.

“His entire demeanor during his sessions with Doctor Clemens were him solely avoiding opening up to him. He never ever gave Clemens any of the information that he wanted, and that threw him off. He's been doing great progress with Drew, but Barton just wasn't his cup of tea. However, I can tell you that his trick of diverting the attention off him shows that he knows how to deal with being observed and that he is a good actor.” Laura paused, as she took a deep breath.

“It comes from his long time in the circus, as I've told you, he spent time around crooks and other frauds, but also magicians and animal tamers. The fact that he went for the wolf story right away showed that he probably felt best with the animals than other people, otherwise he would have talked about Barney, and some of the other members of the circus, right?”

Peggy nodded, as she took the report card, opening it, but paying attention to what Laura had to say. “The wolf is a hunter, and a resourceful animal – I did a bit of research on the symbolism, and whether Clint admits it or not, the wolf represents him pretty well. Wolves are good at adapting to new environments, and they are very intuitive. He's got this keen observation skills that allow him to read a person almost right away. That's why he went through three therapists before we found the right one for him – he bullshitted his way through Clemens, made Hampton so uncomfortable he basically fled, and... well, Montgomery wasn't the right kind of doctor for him.”

Going on, Laura moved a bit forward and pointed to a paragraph she had written down on Clint's assessment. “Wolves are thought to represent freedom. Clemens had something going when he talked about being a part of a pack, because wolves are family creatures. Clint felt like he belonged in the circus, that's why he went down the path he went with Chisholm, his archery mentor. He needed someplace to belong, and that place was crime.”

Looking up at Peggy to grab her attention and make her focus on her words, Laura nodded when she spoke again. “The hawk that he mentions afterwards, that's vision and intuition. Both the hawk and the wolf are intuitive, and I can probably tell you that Clint won't follow orders the same way Drew and Rumlow will or are doing. And, hawks can _see_.” She paused, for dramatic effect, before resuming, as Peggy's smile grew.

“Hawks, and well, 'Hawkeye', are good observers and good analysts, that's why Clint's managed to get so far. He is a clever little shit, and he knows it, that's why he acts so cocky. Apologies for the language,” she caught herself, but Peggy just nodded along. “I'm sure he will see things that SHIELD can't and that he will do things SHIELD hadn't expected of him. Because he thinks it's the right call to make.”

“Tell me about Doctor Hampton. You said he scared her away?”

Nodding, Laura pulled out the file containing the three sessions Clint had done with Dr. Hampton. They weren't thick. He hadn't said a single word during any of the sessions, and had literally made the doctor run away.

* * *

Doctor Emma Hampton was the quiet type of doctor. The type where patients would go in, talk and know to trust her with their words, and they would walk out feeling cleansed and happy.

She specialized in senior Agents and in treatment of Agents with PTSD or who needed to externalize conflicts in themselves. Dr. Clemens had requested that Clint be drafted to her, because he couldn't handle the way Barton would worm himself out of his questions, and it made him a little bit uneasy.

The third session with Hampton turned out to be the most fascinating one. To Laura at least. Because, the two first sessions had felt a bit like Clint was slowly assessing the damage he could do to the doctor before she would back down.

In complete contrast to Clemens, Clint treated Hampton the complete opposite way. Instead of talking too much, he hadn't said a thing. At all.

Not one single little word had crossed his lips, no matter how much Hampton had tried. She had brought out Rorscharch tests, she had tried word associations, just about anything to get him to talk to her, but the two past sessions had ended when the clock had dinged that their 45 minutes were past and she had showed Clint out.

As he walked into her office this time, he didn't say hello. Laura smiled at Hampton, and as the door closed, she thought about whether the doctor would finally give in today or not. Laura would watch the recordings of today's session later, she had to attend to her own duties within SHIELD. That is, the ones that didn't revolve around Clint Barton and leave him in the hands of another therapist.

“So, Clint,” Hampton started as they both sat down. The office was a bit differently furnished and design, lots of light came in through huge windows. They were on the 34th floor of the Triskelion, and the view was honestly amazing. Clint liked to look through the windows, even though he hadn't said it. His gaze, however, as he sat down, settled on the one subject of his attention: Emma Hampton herself.

“How are you today?” she asked, pulling out her pen and her pad, ready to take down notes on an unexistent dialogue. Watching them on video made Laura uncomfortable too, because what Clint was doing provoked the very basic animal instinct to flee – he stared. And stared. And he barely ever blinked.

He didn't even move a muslce and she wondered how he did it.

“Laura told me you'd been training, sparring with Drew, right? Jessica? You and her spar a lot together. I've heard from May that you've got quite the talent and good reflexes.” There was a pause where she purposedly avoided his gaze, but she was already started to sweat. Her palms were moist already, and she could feel the grip on the pen slipping up slightly.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

The eery silence that followed her pointless questions didn't shift. Clint didn't move from the position he had chosen today. He just watched her, and Hampton almost felt like he was calculating his move to kill her. His eyes followed her every movement, and every time she moved a finger, put some hair back behind her ear, even readjusted her balance on the chair by moving her shoe, she realized that he saw. He saw everything.

And it made her really, really, really uncomfortable. The sweating soon spread again, and she could feel her forehead was getting damp too.

“Uh, let's just try another word association game, okay?” She nodded to herself and saw him blink, but his gaze was unfaltered. This was the third time in two weeks that she had sat in front of him, and it made her uneasy. His gaze made her think about all her insecurities – she knew that she wasn't supposed to think of those and she was a professional, but... What if he knew? She tried to blow some steam off by looking at the list of words she had written down.

“Family? What's the first word that pops up in your head when I say, uhm, family?” she asked, but Clint didn't reply.

At the lack of response, she put the pen down to scratch her neck, showing discomfort in the situation.

Sitting in silence for a couple of minutes more, Clint still not moving from his assumed battle position, she looked up at the camera and shook her head.

“I can't do this. I don't know. Find someone else, ask him to go to Montgomery. I don't want him to be my patient anymore.” She paused and pointed at him.

(He still hadn't moved).

“Look at him! He looks like a fucking animal and I feel like I'm going to die any minute!”

And with that, she walked out of her own office, leaving everything behind – pen, pad, book. Everything.

On the video footage of the session, Clint was seen watching her leave, before he smirked to himself and looked up at the camera before doing a thumbs up.

* * *

“He scared Hampton away?” Peggy laughed, and Laura smiled back. She tapped the files and nodded.

“You can see the thickness of these files, and you can deduce yourself that there wasn't much to write,” she replied, thoughtfully, as Peggy smiled back at her. A wide smile, one of those that made you feel at ease. Laura knew that as long as Peggy was in SHIELD, all would be well.

“So, tell me what you learnt about Clint's behavior with Doctor Hampton.”

“Well... He managed to scare of a trained medical professional just by staring at her, and I think that's got to do with him working with circus artists who specialize in human behavior – you know the guys who pretend to be able to talk to dead people but are actually just reading off your general attitude? I wouldn't be surprised if Clint can do magic tricks,” was the reply she formulated as she frowned. She wasn't sure what the eery way Clint had stared the Doctor down was appropriate. She felt it wasn't. But Clint hadn't cared, had he?

However, she quickly added that, “Also, the fact that he didn't move for hours just out of sheer willpower proves that he will probably be a good sniper. No fidgeting, no unnecessary movements and a complete focus. I think that will turn out to be a great strength of his.”

With a nod, Peggy pointed to the file that was currently top of Laura's list. Montgomery's notes, unedited and with all the details of the 5 week long relationship he had had with Clint. Looking down at it, worry starting to build up in her chest, Laura handed the papers to Peggy.

“Montgomery was a mistake,” she said, as soon as Peggy caught the files.

“Why so?”

“Let's just say that his partnership with Clint was a waste of time and it was absolutely necessary that Clint change therapist two weeks ago.”

She sighed, as she started explaining why Montgomery had been such a drastic mistake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is! How did you like it? Are you excited for tomorrow? I am! Because it's going to get painful before it gets nice again!  
> Let me know, tell me what you think is going to happen! I'll be waiting for you tomorrow! ;)


	9. Laura B. - January 1991 (cont.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have part 2!  
> Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!
> 
> Slight trigger warning for medication and pill mentions.

As she realized that having bulldozed his way through two different psychiatrists wasn't going to stop him, Laura had to find out who to direct him to. Dr. Montgomery put her off slightly – he was one of those types where you could just see that he was... well. Creepy, to put it mildly.

He specialized in forensic psychiatry. It meant that he would be able to take care of Clint within the legal system, and would allow him to delve deeper into Clint's past criminal life and social life. Part of why Laura disliked him was that Dr. Montgomery had worked in one of SHIELD's Alaska bases and had specialized in the treatment of Prisoners of War (they weren't called like that, not really, but they were that all the same).

Handing Clint over to him felt strange. However, on the 1st of December 1990, that is exactly what happened.

Nick Fury had greenlit the switch in therapists – as he had been recommended by Alexander Pierce himself – and thus, she saw Clint walk into the good doctor's office, on one of the sub levels. It wasn't as far down as the holding cells, but it was still below ground.

She remembered how Clint had liked the view in Hampton's office, and realized that he was going to miss the sunlight. Clint was a creature who liked nature, who liked the sun and loved the moon.

When the door closed to that first session, Laura felt a pang of anxiety in her gut. Unfortunately, it took her too long to notice that the gut feeling turned out to be true.

Clint sat down on the folding chair in front of him, as Montgomery had requested an interrogation room to be the location of their sessions. He said it was a 'sober environment' where Clint wouldn't have external stimuli and where Montgomery could control the entire session.

Laura thought it reminded of a prison cell, but didn't say. Nick had said that if Pierce got involved, it was best not to say anything.

“So, Clinton Francis Barton. You're 19 years old.” Pause. Clint looked at the doctor, whose face was absolutely unreadable. It was like a blank page, and on the security footage, Laura noticed that it threw Clint off. There was something off about both their behavior, and she noticed it made Clint uneasy.

“Is it alright if we start with some simple word association?” Montgomery asked, and Clint replied by nodding his head. He put his hands out flat on the table, as if trying to impress the doctor by his physique, but the doctor didn't seem phased by it. Instead of acknowleding the movement, he looked down at his pad and started the word association.

“Wolf?”

Clint blinked before leaning back into the metallic chair. “ _Pack_ ,” was the one word reply he gave the doctor.

“Hawk?”

“ _Trust_.”

Montgomery scribbled some things down, and Laura realized he was going through the previous psychiatrists' sessions' key words.

“Emotion?”

“ _Anger_.”

There was no waiting time now between when Montgomery replied and Clint did.

“Night?”

“ _Day_.”

“Heart?”

“ _Vulnerable. No wait, target._ ”

Montgomery's mouth formed the 'o' shape as he feigned surprise, and scribbled down the two words.

“Love?”

“ _Solitude_.”

“Hate?”

“ _Traitors_.”

Laura frowned at this, and she realized that Clint probably meant Barney. It was Barney's fault that he was here, and he probably resented him for it.

“Dark?”

“ _Light_.”

“Family?”

“ _Unexistent_.” Clint moved slightly to the side at this, his eyes lowering to the table and refusing to acknowledge Montgomery's gaze.

“Therapy?”

“ _Useless_.”

“Pain?”

“ _Necessary_.”

“Good, Clint. Very good.” The doctor put down the pad and crossed his fingers as he looked at his patient thoughtfully. Clint shrunk at the gaze, and Laura realized, as she watched the security footage, that Clint was behaving in a way that was very different from what she was used to seeing – something about Montgomery made him uncomfortable and Clint was visibly tense and anxious in there.

“I've been hearing that you have an explosive side, which make you go into a fit of rage?”

A nod was the reply, and Clint shifted his gaze to look anywhere but at the doctor.

“You hit Agent Hill repeatedly and was only pulled out of that fit of rage by Agent May breaking your arm. Is that correct?”

Another nod.

“Care to tell me why that happened?”

Shrugging, Clint bit his lower lip before he replied. “I dunno. Sometimes it just happens. I snap and then everything goes red. It's like I can't control myself. Jess says it's probably something that'll go away as I get more training. That's why I'm seeing you guys, right?”

“Right you are, boy.”

Clint's head ticked to the side at the word boy, and Montgomery nodded to himself as consequence.

“Did you feel any sort of remorse or displeasure upon realizing you had sent Agent Hill to the medical bay?”

The reply came as fast as the word association replies. “Yes, I did. I didn't mean to, it just happened. I don't mean these things to happen, they just do. It's like something breaks inside my head and I start screaming and beating and nothing in hell can make me stop.”

He grew quiet after his answer, and Montgomery scribbled something down before handing the note to Clint.

“I'm going to ask you to take these daily, they will help you get a grip of your anger and try to focus on other things. I want you to take them morning and night, and not skip them. I will know if you do.”

Clint took the paper sheepishly, as he tried to read what was written on it, but Montgomery's writing was too hard for him to decipher. He trusted the nurses in SHIELD to know what was supposed to be written on here.

Some pills. Couldn't be that bad, right?

That is, however, how hell began.

After three weeks, Laura noticed a shift in Clint's behavior. In physical training, his speed had considerably sunk, and he no longer felt alive when he got his bow back in his hand. He would stay in his room for longer periods of time, and she thought it was because Jessica was training outside, that she was being tested other ways.

Jessica had powers, after all. They had to figure out what she could do, right?

Three weeks in, after four total sessions, and reading copies of what they'd said to each other, she noticed that Clint's behavior had changed. Drastically.

Walking up to Fury's office, she pointed this out to him. He took the files, but a recent crisis in Saint Petersburg involving a hospital fire had all his attention. She knew he wouldn't look at the files just now.

There was just something off. And it felt terrible, because Montgomery stated it was perfectly normal.

The day after New Year's, the first day of 1991, Laura asked to oversee the session. They were taking place in an interrogation room, so there was a two way mirror and a microphone in there, so she would be able to follow it as it transpired. She would carry everything regarding Clint – his file, the transcripts of previous sessions, the receipts of his medication, everything.

And what she saw that day made her angry in her bones. (In a way, she realizes, still makes her angry).

“So, Clint, tell me. How are you feeling today?”

Barely looking up from his hands, his head dangling low, Clint shrugged. “'kay, I guess,” was the reply that came.

“How's training? Feeling better now that your emotions are in check?”

The doctor watched Clint with predatory eyes, and Laura felt the hairs on her arms rise. There was something terribly off here.

“Dunno. I don't really feel anything,” he replied.

Laura opened the file and looked at the words scribbled on the receipt that Montgomery had given her.

One word made her frown. It was the word Zola. That was- wait what? She sat up and walked out of the room, down to Bobbi Morse's desk area. She knew the Agent was still on site at the Triskelion.

Dangling the receipt in front of her eyes, Laura frowned as she spoke.

“Is that Zola as in Zola from HYDRA?” she questioned, and the other agent took the paper.

“Is Barton on SSRIs?” Bobbi asked as she looked at the paper. “Those things aren't good, not for this. How long has he been on them?”

Laura pulled the file out. “Five weeks.”

“He needs to get off them, now.”

Bobbi stood up and ripped the paper out of Laura's hand, before marching down to Fury's office, Laura following close behind.

As she moved into the office, not caring for knocking or even saying sorry, she shoved the piece of paper down onto the desk. Agents Rumlow and May were in the room, in what appeared to be a debrief, but she didn't care. Laura stood behind her, knowing that her place here wasn't important, but she felt the need to back up Bobbi should Fury ask any sort of questions.

“Get Clint out of Montgomery's treatment, now.”

“Agent Morse, I don't believe you have the right qualifications to demand such a-”

“Shut up, Fury. This kid, this 19 year old kid is on a treatment of pills that Montgomery gave him to inhibit his emotions and his anger. Remember he had anger issues? Those things aren't treated by giving him emotion inhibitors – even less when it's the sort that Arnim Zola was working on to recreate the serum used on Rogers!”

Laura say Nick's eye twitch and noticed that Brock Rumlow had grown very quiet. May took a step forward and picked up the paper.

“This particular drug was abandonned because it caused dizziness, agitation and anxiety in patients, sir,” May replied and Laura suddenly saw the director realize the meaning.

“How's he been acting lately? Bishop, talk to me.”

Laura's head popped up and Bobbi moved to the side. “He's been acting weird, sir. Not reacting to many stimuli, training has caused him to get slower and he doesn't seem to react to either me or his friends here – Morse and Drew.” She took a deep breath, before Bobbi spoke again.

“Sir, this is the sort of drugs they put people on to control them. Barton's got anger issues, sure, but he needs to figure them out the hard way by hitting stuff, not by getting it drugged out of his system.” Bobbi's words were sharp, and Laura realized that she was glad Bobbi was with her on this.

“You sure this is the one Zola was working on? He died in 1972, that's twenty years ago,” but before he got the reply May handed him the receipt and he read it before taking a deep breath.

“Good. Get him out. Get him off them. Bishop, you look after him while he sobers up, Bobbi you escort Montgomery back to his office, I'll talk to Pierce about this.”

Brock Rumlow cleared his throat, as if to remind them of his presence there.

“Yes, Rumlow?”

“I think that Montgomery's just trying to do good things to Barton, sir. Getting him off the medication now might render useless the progress that's been made the past-”

“Did I fucking as you for your opinion on this, Rumlow?” Fury snapped back and Laura, Bobbi and May exited the room as the Director gave Rumlow a verbal asswhooping.

* * *

“I always disliked Zola's methods, way too cruel.”

Peggy leant back into her seat as she sighed, as Laura finished her tale. She remembered Zola – she hated him til he died. She had never trusted him, and probably never would. The fact that Howard had worked with him for so many years always irked her.

“Clint's been off the pills for three weeks, and he's gotten back to normal. Well, almost. He's more weary of people now that he experienced the pills and the treason. He doesn't speak much, but he's still himself,” Laura added as she put the file containing Dr. Beckett's notes down in front of Peggy.

“Doctor Beckett's been taking good care of him though.” A faint smile appeared on her lips, and she realized that perhaps Beckett should have been the obvious choice since the beginning.

“She specializes in young adults and children, she's both worked as a psychiatrist, a psychologist and she has background as a psychoanalyst. I think she's good for him, she earned his trust a week ago.”

As Peggy opened the file, she realized it was empty, except for Laura's notes.

“No session transcripts?” Peggy asked, and Laura shook her head.

“Nope. There's a tape recording of them, and I am the only one allowed to listen to them.”

Laura pointed to her report. “Clint asked me to only tell people I trusted about what he's been saying.” She paused. “Clint's opened up about his childhood, his traumas. He's admitted that he thinks he is so familiar with violence and goes to it as a first response because it's what he was raised into. He's talked about how being alone allows him to make sure nobody gets hurt – he's afraid to end up like his father.”

She sighed deeply, as she looked down at her watch. She'd been talking with Peggy for over two hours now, and she knew she had to go home soon.

“He says if he's alone, he doesn't put anyone at risk. His anger is his protection. Doctor Beckett allows him to work on both his past and his present, giving him food for thought in questions of morality, and working with his mind. Reflexes, focus, and different tricks she knows of, when she studied in Yale University.”

Peggy smiled at her. “Beckett will be good for him, I think. Keep me updated as often as you can,” she said, and stood up. Laura knew then that Peggy had seen her look at her watch and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

“I'm not in a hurry, ma'am,” she tried, but Peggy shook her head.

“You are, your little sister's waiting for you. Tell little Katherine that Peggy says hello,” she answered, and Laura got up.

As she walked out of the door, Laura let out a deep breath. She liked Peggy Carter very much, and respected her. She had debriefed in a similar fashion to Nick Fury, because she respected him. Debriefing to Peggy was almost like talking to a motherly figure. She knew it was just because her own mother, Eleanor, had died not too long ago.

Katherine – Katie – was only 4 years old now, but she needed a mom. So did Laura. Maybe, she should beware of taking Peggy as a replacement mother. No good would come out of that.

* * *

“So, how's progress going with Clint?”

Laura tapped her foot quietly against the floor, sitting on the chair that Clint usually sat in during his sessions with Dr. Beckett. The other woman – Claire – had been so kind as to take some time off her lunch break to discuss Clint with her.

“He's doing great. He's needed some time to readjust after what he went through, but he's on steady ground,” she replied, not bothering to open Clint's file. Laura trusted her word for it and knew she was doing the best for Clint.

“I think you're a good thing for him. You, and Agent Morse, Miss Drew, Agent May. Even Agent Coulson seems to be a good way to ground him within SHIELD. He's taken a liking to Director Fury as well, and he's very keen to get into it when either of you is involved,” she went on, and Laura nodded. She could feel Clint's confidence grow with SHIELD as each day passed, but hearing it from his therapist's own mouth felt better.

“Fury stated that he won't send him out until he turns 21 years old,” Laura stated, matter of factly.

“Yes, he's still underage and the Director doesn't want to risk imbalancing him or giving him any opportunity to bail. We've talked to his brother Barney several times during the last months, even though it's been kept from both you and him.” There was something she was hiding there.

Laura couldn't help the question that came. “What have you been talking about?”

“His older brother finally managed to get paperwork through, and he's acquired the rights to their old family home again. When we contacted him about Clint's condition two months ago, he was first very hostile to us, but then opened up.”

Nodding to herself, Laura couldn't help but imagine the home Clint had grown up in – a dark place, surrounded by monsters in the shape of a drunken father. It must have been hell.

“Barney's put Clint on his will should he ever be killed or die before his time,” Beckett replied as she pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. Laura twitched slightly at the mention.

“Clint is set to inherit the house?”

That felt wrong.

“I didn't say house,” Beckett smiled and Laura frowned. That wasn't exactly what she was expecting.

“Okay,” Laura replied as she got up.

“Take good care of him, alright? Even Director Carter is very keen to see him do good in the future, and they're eager to see him perform under pressure for the first time too,” was Beckett's last words to her as she exited the room and Laura felt more pride than ever. And a little bit of pressure too, because she knew what Clint meant to them all.

He was going to be a key player, Fury had told her so several times. The way she looked at it, he was just a very intelligent and smart kid with unconventional skills and morals. A key player? That would have to wait until he went out on his first mission. (Jessica Drew was going to be cleared earlier than him as she was almost a year older than him, so she would go out before him. They had already discussed which members of the team would accompany him out to whichever mission they decided for him, and they all agreed that Jessica should be on it.)

(Rumlow seemed very intent on being there too, but that would have to wait until it became relevant).

* * *

Two days later, after discussing with Jessica about some training issues – and an introductory meeting with Agent Jasper Sitwell – Laura was bound for Doctor Beckett's office, to collect her report of Clint's session.

She was the only one allowed to read them, as it had been decided between Beckett and Clint. Only Laura could read and make notes to pass onto others. She was looking down at her watch, before pulling out the file to take the papers into as soon as she got her hands on them, that she didn't notice that something was in her way.

And, with a loud bump, she collided with that something.

“Hey!”

Looking up, she recognized Clint, whose chin had just collided with her forehead. Rubbing her forehead, she laughed.

“Oh my god, sorry Clint!”

Why was he there? Beckett's session with him had ended over two hours ago, and he had been supposed to head down to some of his first physical evaluations, now that Jessica was done with hers. (Well. The preliminary evaluations anyway, they still had to figure out if she needed help to stay steady while in flight).

(Jessica could fly. She could fucking fly, and it still blew Laura's mind).

“Yeah, sorry, I know, I just- I was waiting for you,” was the reply that came, and Laura stopped rubbing her head and looked at his face. She liked analyzing him, trying to figure out how he worked, but whenever they spoke together, it was awkward. Probably because she knew so much more about him than he did her.

“Oh, you shouldn't have. You were scheduled for a physical evaluation today?”

“Oh man! That was today?” he whined, and Laura nodded, pretty sure of herself.

She looked at the door to Beckett's office and considered making a run for it, but he had just said that he had been waiting for her. “Why were you waiting for me?” she questioned, as she readjusted the files in her hand, trying to not freak out.

“Well, I was just wondering if uh-” A pause. “If you know- like- uh.”

Well. This was awkward. She looked at him expectantly and saw him blush. It wasn't the sort of teenage crush blush, more like when a person wants to ask for something that embarrasses them.

“I trust you,” he said, in a quiet and strained voice, before he went on, “it's just that you know me way better than I think I do myself.” She nodded, encouraging him to go on. “So, I just thought, that uh- Maybe if you know so much about me, it's only fair that I know something about you?”

He was rocking back and forth on his feet, and she knew that he was very nervous about this. Laura didn't read it as anything else, she had other worries. Protocol said not to share too much with new agents, and her private life was, well, private. However...

“I don't know if I can do that, Clint,” was her first reply, and the look in his eyes almost made her regret saying it. She made a move for the door, but Clint took as step back to follow her own pace.

“Please? I know that Laura's not really your real name,” he replied and she arched an eyebrow. How the hell did he know that?

“And I know that you've got a boyfriend, so don't worry, I'm not after that. I just- I'd like someone around here to feel real?”

That she could understand.

“The only person I know in here is Jessica, and she's off doing experiments blasting energy from her arms and flying. I have nothing to go on in here.” He made a vague motion at the corridor, indicating the integrity of the Triskelion and Laura sighed. She put her hand on the handle into Dr. Beckett's office and looked down at her fingers.

“Alright, but you don't tell anyone.”

She counted to three, as he stood there quietly.

“I've got a little sister, she just turned 4 years old, her name's Katherine but I call her Katie. And my real name's Susan, but I don't like it so I use Laura instead,” she stated, looking up at his face.

It had lit up like a child on Christmas Eve, and before he could say anything more, she moved into the office, leaving him hanging there in the corridor like a fish out of the water.

She honestly did not want to tell him more. Not about the boyfriend, not about her father, or her mom (who was actually ill), or her sister. This was enough. She didn't think that it was unfair that she knew so much about him, and that he didn't. But she did think that it would help him to have something to live off. A personal history could help ground him.

Right?

If they were all just empty names made for the next mission, it wouldn't help him find his place here, would it? She didn't know. She wasn't a field agent. She was just Laura Bishop, and that was it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo? Zola, Bishop- etc. I am having way too much fun with all these names.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, and that you have some things to yell at me. Or just tell me. (No need to yell).
> 
> See you all next Sunday, if everything goes according to plan?! (I have a job that might start next week, and thus it might be a bit difficult for me to find the time to write, BUT! All is good. DYELMG will still be top priority when free time pops up).


	10. Nick Fury - February 1991 to December 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to get Clint Barton through some basic training, and Nick Fury knows exactly how the Barton boy will receive such a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> I have a couple of things I want to say but I'm going to start with the first - I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED FOR TWO WEEKS. In my defense, I've started a full time job which means that I have little time (it's 8 hours a day plus 1 hour to get there and 1 hour to get back home), so I've had very little time to sit down and write (I usually only write if I can sit down for at least an hour).
> 
> Second, I do not know when the next update will be - I will try to get it up next Sunday (26th), BUT, I'm going to be working (probably) 6 days next week, which means that I'm going to be short on time to write. (Yes, I work on weekends. It sort of sucks, but then not, because I get extra salary for it?). What this means is that if it isn't up next Sunday, then it'll probably be the Sunday after that. I can't promise anything at all. What you can do to track updates, is to check up on [my Don't You Ever Let Me Go tag over on tumblr. ](http://spectralarchers.tumblr.com/tagged/dyelmg) That's most likely where I will post anything regarding how much I've been able to write.
> 
> Thirdly, I know that there are a lot of typos in this chapter, but I don't have the time (right now anyway), to go back in and correct them (I re-read the chapter on my way home from work, so I couldn't edit it there), but I know they're there. So please, bear with me when you read. (Don't yell at me if you find a very obvious mistake, I've tried squishing in writing time whenever I've had an hour to spend on something).
> 
> And last, I just want to say that I hope you enjoy this chaper. I apologize again for the delay on it, and I hope you guys understand!

The handling that had followed Clint's ping pong through different psychologists and therapists had made Nick uneasy. He felt that somehow, it had tainted his newest asset with something that hadn't been there before. He saw it clearly. He saw it so very clearly, from the moment Bobbi Morse and Melinda May told him and reported to him from what they saw.

Having young Clint Barton on site at the Triskelion was a risk he was taking, because another mistake could be ever close at hand – if Clint got involved with the wrong people again, or if he was handled without good care, Nick would lose his asset. And this was not time spent he wanted to waste.

Nick had this nagging feeling at the back of his head – like something itching its way back to the front of his head, but every single time it seemed that there had been some sort of progress, the feeling disappeared within a night, and then slowly started creeping back. But, as he had learnt a long time ago, it was better not to tell anyone about suspicions. Not Coulson, not May, not Hill. Not anybody. He would keep this snake in his head to himself, and wait for it to make itself known, no matter the cost. There were too many things at stake, too many wars, too many conflicts – too much human life and intelligence to be wasted. This was not the place, nor the time to give in to these suspicions.

So, when Doctor Beckett came in to tell him, about a month later, that Clint was ready to be cleared for physical evaluation and training, something inside Fury's mind clicked. Something that made sense, and made absolute _perfect_ sense. He wondered why he hadn't thought about it before, but as he spoke with Barton's therapist, he realized that this might be the road to go down.

Get Barton away from the Triskelion and SHIELD agents who were trying to interfere with his training. Get him into familiar grounds or at least some place where he won't stand out. Get him into a hierarchy that he will respect and understand. And, as Doctor Beckett gave him the green light, he knew that he was doing the right thing.

Besides, he would later tell Coulson, the kid's not 21 yet. And he wasn't going to go out on the field before being 21 anyway, so they might as well get him some sort of training. Even if meant letting him go and handing over to the United States Army.

*

“Let me get this straight,” Alexander Pierce stated, as he closed the sand colored folder over Clinton Francis Barton's file, “You sent your newest recruit away to receive training by the U. S. Army because you thought that they would do a better job than SHIELD?”

Nodding, Fury didn't let one single emotion show on his face. Play this close to the heart. The Barton kid would get some good things out of being in a military environment. He would always be able to merge with the training groups in SHIELD before going out on the field – Brock Rumlow had a military past, had he not?

“I believe that Barton will get an appropriate training through the individual and collective basic training provided by the US military. That means that he will be out of your hair and your paperwork for up to 25 weeks, which leads us up to July. By then he will have received discipline and proved his physical abilities as well as his tactical abilities. And if all goes well, he will have proved that he can obey orders as well.”

Pierce's eyes were fixed on Fury's eye, and he knew that there were a lot of weight to what he was doing. Sending Barton in under military jurisdiction meant that they lost any and all control over what was going to happen to him until that time that the United States Army decided that the kid was ready to leave them. (It also meant that the Army might get an interest in his, with his special skills and all).

“You sound like you've thought this well through, Nick. I'll trust you on this,” Pierce replied, with an icy tone. He didn't seem pleased. “Who will we send in to assess his progress?” was the question that came after that, and Fury's eyebrow twitched.

“I've already asked his brother, a well known member of the Army, to look into it whenever he can get a day off from his work with the FBI. I've also got some aces up my sleeve that I can send in to assess Barton's progress, but I'll keep them off the record for now.”

His reply had come in the exact same icy tone – in a world full of secrets, it was best to keep things close. In this case, as close as possible. If another disaster happened, and Barton was put under the wrong supervision again – well, Fury didn't want to think about it. Hence the sending him away until he was sure the kid would and could fend for himself in an environment he was unfamiliar with.

Alexander Pierce picked up the file from the table and handed it back to Fury. He stood up from the Le Corbusier chair he had recently purchased for his office, and Fury followed his cue, standing up and brushing the leather jacket back. Walking past the super elipse table, covered in different files and paperwork – one of which read STRIKE Team Alpha – Fury tried to figure out a way to end this peacefully.

Sometimes, it was easier dealing with Director Carter than Director Pierce. But there were times where Peggy Carter was unavailable, and these past weeks had been some of them.

“I trust you with him, Nick,” Pierce stated as he opened the door to his office. “I know you'll do him good, but I have plans for him too. I have plans for Agents Drew and Morse, and I can't wait to get my hand back on Barton.”

“Good to hear,” Fury replied, with a smile as bright but as fake as was possible. “I can't wait to hear what your Strike Teams manage once you've gotten them up and running,” he added, and the slight surprise in Pierce's eyes was enough for him to feel like he had had the last word in this discussion.

Without further words, he walked down the corridor and down towards the departure halls, where he had asked Barton to wait for him before transporation to the Army base the kid would call his home for the coming 6 months.

*

“Sir, can I ask you a question?”

Fury had chosen to travel with the kid all the way out to the base to make sure that nothing happened to him on the way. He would only hand him over to his Drill sergeant, and nobody else. He wouldn't even trust some of his own agents for this.

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you sending me away?”

It wasn't a 'what did I do wrong?' sort of question, Fury felt that. He felt that the kid knew something fishy was going on, and that there was something that needed to be done to get that elephant out of the room.

“Well, it's a lot safer for you – and for me – to have you out here. With other recruits, where you can blend in and learn.” Fury paused, as he looked down at the kid. They were sitting in the back of a truck, and it wasn't going to be the most comfortable ride ever. Clint looked like he had seen worse nights.

“I know you wanted to join along with your older brother,” Fury started, only to be interrupted by a loud snort from Clint's part.

“That was years ago.”

“Still the same thing. You'll get it when they make you go through the first ten weeks basic training, kid. And then, that's when things get really interesting.” Not only because the first ten weeks were the most basic ones, but because the phases that came after that would make Clint shine. If he wanted to, that is.

“But the real reason. What made you consider sending me away?” Clint paused, as he fidgeted with his nails. He had a bad habit of biting them down when he was nervous, and it was a tell that he would need to work on. But who was Fury going to blame for it?

“Your mishap with Zola's medication.” That was the best answer Fury could give him, and the most honest one. He knew that Barton would understand right away what it meant, and that he wouldn't question it further. A nod came, and he knew this time that the discussion had ended.

They drove for some more hours, and when he was on the jet on the way back to DC, Fury wondered how the boy would fare for the first ten weeks. But, then, news came through his private communications device and the boy became almost irrelevant.

*

It wasn't like he had never expected this to happen. He'd seen it coming, they all had, because age was catching up slowly. The news just felt so unexpected. So _fucking_ unexpected.

Peggy Carter had to retire. Not because of some incompetence, but because she was now displaying early signs of Alzheimer's disease. It was so sudden, that even Fury wondered if there wasn't something strange about it. But they all knew – Peggy was 70 years old. The fiery woman that had served in the SSR alongside Captain America had been going strong for so long, keeping up the SSR through the transformation into SHIELD, she'd seen Fury and Pierce come to, she'd seen HYDRA defeated and she'd seen the modern SHIELD become what it was.

A beacon of justice and right. A shield to protect the innocent from evil. Exactly what she had wanted it to be. And now, it seemed that the time had come for her to step down from her leading role and let Alexander Pierce take over. After all, after Bogota and his postings in South America, he seemed like the most appropriate member of SHIELD to take over as Director of Operations.

The council agreed. They all agreed. And it made it even worse to know that Peggy would be dismissed like any other agent, even though she was still a fiery and strong woman. She represented everything that Fury liked in an agent, and he was going to miss her dearly.

*

Fury's pager suddenly beeped, and broke his train of thoughts. Howard Stark's son, Anthony, had been recently sighted in Monaco, near the Casino de Monte Carlo, having gambled for about 33 hours straight before having been asked to leave the premises. (He'd actually just crossed the Place du Casino and headed straight to the Hôtel de Paris and continued his party in the room he had booked there).

But it wasn't that exact information that made him put down the file he was currently filling out. It was the next line: Howard Stark himself wanted to discuss something with him. He couldn't disclose what or when or even where, but he wanted to talk to him.

Gently closing the folder with Barton's name on it – he was at his fourth week in basic training – Fury rubbed his one eye. There were too many things going on. Belgrade was filled with tanks, Sierra Leone had just suffered from an attempted coup on the government... This month seemed to be never ending. He put down the pager and looked up at the clock. It was also 4 in the morning, which probably didn't help the feeling of the month being endless.

Getting up, he went straight for the door, and made his way down the staircase, down to Hill's office. She was still up too – paperwork to be done, Pierce had ordered Strike Team Alpha, Beta and Charlie to be set up as fast as possible – and didn't seem like she was going to see the end of it anytime soon.

“Hill,” Fury greeted, and she looked up from the paper copy she was currently holding. He saw over her shoulder that she had barely made any progress on Alpha.

“Boss.”

“I want you to arrange a date for me.”

“Sir?” She acted surprised, but he knew that she understood his request. Arranging a date for them meant a meeting that wasn't supposed to show up on SHIELD paperwork. (Romantic relationships weren't exactly official, even though they monitored some of their agents, if they were afraid they were a threat).

“With whom?”

“We've exchanged a bit, and we're ready for a first meeting. Here's her contact information,” he said as he handed her the pager, and she nodded.

“That blonde one? I'll set it up as soon as I'm done with the paperwork here, sir,” she replied, a glint of mischied in her eyes. Acting was a beautiful thing. (They were always cautious around cameras. An intelligence agency that feared intelligence wasn't maybe the best thing ever, but there was no reason for anyone else to know about Fury and Stark's meeting, so they were making this a secret).

“Thanks,” he started, before looking over her shoulder again. “How's our Strike Teams looking?”

“Strike Team Alpha, first subdivision of STRIKE, the new counter-terrorist subdivision of SHIELD, is going to be made up of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins, while they're being handled by Jasper Sitwell. Their field results and team results are astounding and they seem to be working together rather well, which is why Pierce ordered them to be the Alpha team. Rumlow is going ot be leading it.” She paused, as she pulled Rumlow's, Rollins' and Sitwell's individual files up, but Fury shook his head, and she continued.

“Strike Team Beta, will be agents Melinda May and Jessica Drew, they're going to team up together, as their partnership results are quite impressive too. May's guidance of your newest recruit, Agent Drew, is proving to be quite the success, so we've paired them up to be the second Strike Team. They're still going to be taking orders from Alpha, though, but they will be cleared level 7 agents and be sent out to do some of the dirty work. Jessica Drew's passed all the tests,” she went on, pulled out Drew's file.

Fury took it from her hands and opened it, flipping through some of the papers, reaching her special abilities soon enough.

“Any news on her flight abilities?” he questioned, and Hill simply nodded.

“She's been able to keep steady in flight for a while but it tires her out,” she started, before frowning slightly, “kind of like when you use up batteries too fast? She needs rest and to gain her energy back up before she can be 100% if she stays in flight too long. Which is why she likes her energy blasts better.”

Nodding, Fury handed the file back to Hill, before she continued, with the last team.

“Strike Team Charlie, that's Bobbi Morse and Phil Coulson. They've known each other longest, so it seemed appropriate for them to become partners as this specific Strike Team. They're both cleared for the level 7 missions, and Coulson's a cleared level 9. They still need to figure out some glitches in their partnership, but it will work out.”

She paused as she gave the table a once over, before sighing. “The paperwork is the real battle, though,” she added, before Fury put his hand on her shoulder.

“Paperwork always is,” he muttered before turning his back. She turned the chair around and watched him leave, wondering if she should say something about his and Stark's meeting, but she decided against it. It was better for her to just do as told in this particular case.

*

“Barton's progress is going rather well,” the voice at the other end of the line stated. Fury had called up an old acquaintance, that he knew was going through basic training too. William Lennox was a good man and he trusted his opinion on Barton. “He's been doing everything asked of him, and has barely ever gone out of line,” he went on, a gentle laugh on his lips.

“And by going out of line, I mean he did a magic trick and made one of the Drill Sergeant's hats disappear from his hands.” He paused.

“He made it reappear again, though.”

Fury nodded to himself, as he took notes of what Lennox was telling him.

“You're in your last week of basic training, did they tell you what they're going to do with him next?”

There was a slight pause. Fury had been keeping track of time as much as possible, and they were now in April, and with Barton soon completing basic training, it meant he would go on to a more specialized training if Fury's wish was granted. He'd had so much to think about lately – especially with Discovery's launch coming up – that he had almost, _almost_ , forgotten about Barton.

It only meant that having him out of his sight meant that other people would forget about him too, and it was probably for the best. He wasn't quite sure what to expect when the boy came back, but he fully expected him to be ready to lead a team of his own. Or at least make up a part of a team.

“They're saying he'll go into specialized training, they're very interesting in his close combat skills, as well as his sniper skills,” was the reply that Lennox gave him, and it made Fury both worried and proud. If the United States Army was interesting in Barton, it meant that there was a reason to be interested (and that he hadn't made a wrong call), but it also meant that it might be harder to get him back out of their hands.

*

The month of May saw Strike Team Beta out on the field – Jessica Drew and Melinda May had paired up to gather some intel in what would soon be the former USSR. Barton's progress still made Fury happy, and he understood for every report that came back, that Clint was a good investment and a call that he had done right.

*

June saw Strike Team Charlie out on the field, Bobbi Morse and Phil Coulson out in Sierra Leone to handle a human trafficking chain. (They also dismantled a blood diamond trail too, but that had been on the side when they found out that the human trafficking stemmed from the diamonds).

*

Fury went to visit Barton in July, to assess his progress. The difference in the boy was that he was no longer too shy, no longer too sheepish. His commanding officers told Fury that he had a flair for seeing things that they hadn't considered and that he oftenmost would follow his own lead if he felt it was more necessary than theirs.

(It had been a success in two training sessions, but a complete failure on the third, and the officers weren't sure if it was a good thing or not).

Fury was just happy that Barton could follow orders now, and that he seemed to be in better shape than he ever was. The kid was 20 now, but he look more like a man than ever – his shoulders had broadened and he had gained muscle.

This also came through when the officers told him about his close combat skills – they had trained him with different partners, and every single time, he had come out on top. None of their specialists could properly identify the fighting skill he used, but it was a chimera of Asian martial arts, Brazilian combat sports, Icelandic glima, English boxing and others. Whatever it was, it was efficient. Barton always hit the weak spot – with his hands, elbows, knees or feet. Or any other part of his body really, he had no problem using his head as a ram and just barge into people.

*

August came round, and SHIELD got busy taking care of the transition between Peggy Carter and Alexander Pierce.

*

September came, bringing its own streak of mess and destruction as the old world and the new world collapsed together into a new thing; and October came with the hope of a better world, after what had happened. Strike Team Alpha had been sent on a mission in the USSR to retrieve some intelligence from the KGB during those two months, and when Rumlow, Sitwell and Rollins came back home to SHIELD with enough files to send out Strike Team Beta and Charlie for the next three years, it was considered a job well done.

*

November and the red leaves, and still word of Barton's progress came through to Fury like a steady flow of good news in the flow of world conflicts and distress around the world.

*

It was in December that things turned sour. And when they turned sour this way, Fury knew that there would be no way back.

Alexander Pierce had requested Strike Team Alpha to accompany him to a meeting with Obadiah Stane and Howard Stark in New York, and so, command of SHIELD befell on Fury's shoulders for the duration.

Pierce would be gone for about a week, to deal with Stark Industries and try to close a partnership between them and SHIELD. A weapons manufacturor would be a good ally in the future, Pierce kept saying. Fury wasn't too sure, weapons were good, yes, but so were the soldiers and people handling them. Look at Barton, at the damage he could do with a bow and arrow – there was no need to make new sophisticated weapons, was there?

In the eyes of Pierce, there was.

And so it was, that on the 17th of December 1991, the front page of the Washington Times unveiled what might turn out to be the biggest loss for Nick Fury since Peggy Carter retired.

“ _Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident on Long Island. Thousands to Attent Funeral in Manhattan for founder and president of Stark Industries._ ”

SHIELD was immediately put on red alert – get Alexander Pierce to safety in the events that the accident hadn't been an accident, but the Alpha team assured that there was no need to support. Fury sent in Beta and Charlie anyway, and when Pierce made it back to the Triskelion, he got cold glares in return.

Howard Stark was dead. Peggy Carter was gone from SHIELD, her sickness taking over her life. Tony Stark, the 21 year old heir to Stark Industries had suddenly been orphaned and Pierce was more than pissed at the development. (However, Stane had promised him that a partnership would still happen. After all, the young Stark hadn't taken a keen interest in the company yet, and until that time, Stane would be the one handling it).

*

That was the moment that Fury decided to pull Clint back in. He would turn 21 within three weeks, and there was a need to prepare him for what would come in the coming year. SHIELD was changing, and Fury wanted Barton to be a part of that change.

No matter the cost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please let me know what you think! In the comments. Or what the best part was. (Or worst, depending on what you like). As I said in the top notes, if you need to see where I stand on updates and such, my [DYELMG tag](http://spectralarchers.tumblr.com/tagged/dyelmg) on tumblr is where you will find any and all information.
> 
> Until next time? *hugs all of you*


	11. Barney Barton - January 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time bring Clint back in to SHIELD, and to see what he's become. It's time to see how much he can do. It's time to see if he will ever become the agent that Fury believes him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super sorry for the delay, again! I know it's Monday, and I hope you can forgive me, these past two weeks have been so incredibly busy.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the update! 
> 
> Also, all typos and mistakes are my own. I haven't proof read as I'm heading to work in 10 minutes and I don't have time for it, but I really wanted to put this up for you guys.

They had lost Peggy Carter and Howard Stark within the year, and SHIELD felt so empty. The two people closest to the old days SSR had disappeared. Even Hank Pym had decided to leave SHIELD two years prior, and it felt like the new world was trying to take over a force of old.

Or at least, that's how Barney saw it. He had been asked to consult from the outside, to monitor Clint's progress. He could see how it was, he could see how they struggled to keep the old ways up to date, but there was really no way of stopping it.

Nick Fury had called Barney in to make a stand in front of Alexander Pierce. Fury had decded to bring back Clint from his training in the army and allow him to take on his first mission, accompanied by a handler yet to be appointed. Fury was afraid of Pierce's plans for his newest recruit – Pierce had already taken a keen interest in Jessica Drew and her special abilities. Fury felt overly protective of Clint, and Barney understood why. He'd felt the same way for years, until he finally decided to go have a life of his own.

Now was different, though. It mattered, because Clint was no longer just a little brother that had to be taken care of – from what he had heard, Clint was more capable than he had ever been before, and if someone decided to push him the wrong way, it would be very difficult for everybody involved. (Barney had always known about Clint's anger issues, he'd have some of his own, but learnt to master them. If the fiasco with Zola's medication were to repeat itself, there would be no small way of fixing it).

Which was why Fury had called him in from the FBI. They were going to take Clint back from the United States Army, and begin to send him out on scouting missions, send him away, send him with something in mind.

* * *

Fury's handed him Clint's file. He isn't sure if he wants to have a look at it before seeing Clint himself, but he knows he's going to have to. In this file, there is all the training that Clint went through before he got pulled off.

(Fury had to go through a rough argument with General William Ross to get Clint back, but he had gotten him back against the promise of partnership in the Super Soldier research program).

(Bullshit).

“Everything's in there,” Fury stated, as he looked up from his own desk. Barney's been sitting in the chair for about three minutes, and hasn't dared look into the file yet. “His weapons training, personnel dossier, operations reports from training simulations, and his first mission brief.”

That got Barney's attention. His first mission brief? And, with that, he opened the file. There was one of Clint's mugshots, several pictures and old posters from the circus. Some of the text was blacked out, but he knew what it said. Classified. Eyes only. Restricted access, level 3. It was the most basic level, and Barney's security clearance was that of 4. (But only because he was a visiting member of the FBI, otherwise he would have been paged in with a lower security clearance).

The personnel dossier was what actually caught Barney's attention.

“ _Clinton Francis Barton,”_ it read, _“was chosen from [CLASSIFIED] by Director Nick Fury for his abilities, combat skills and marksmanship. His former past as [CLASSIFIED] and his abilities in hand-to-hand, firearms, knife throwing and other, have selected him to be a part of [CLASSIFIED]._ ”

Barney looked up from the file, to see that Fury was keeping a close eye on him. When the Director nodded at him to keep going, he started reading again.

“ _ **Weapons**_ _: Long bow, Recurve bow, Compound Bow, Crossbow, Firearms, Knives, Explosives, Swords._

 _ **Physical Abilities:**_ _Close combat skills include: Icelandic glima, Brazilian Capoeira, Boxing, Japanese Aikido, Jujitsu, and Karate, Burmese Bando, Spanish Juego del Palo, and Krav Maga, as well as Knife fighting and other intuitive fighting._ ”

Barney recognized some of the skills listed on the abilities as learnt in the circus from their diverse friends in the performing world. The sword and knife fighting came from DuQuesne, he knew, and he would probably find the origin in all the others someplace in the circus as well.

Putting down the file before looking over the first mission brief, Barney raised his eyes at Fury, who was half smiling – and, as much as he knew Fury, Barney had no idea what it meant right now.

“So, you've made him a weapons' expert and a close combat master. What do you intend to do with him now?” Barney asked, his tone turning cold. This was his little brother they were talking about – there had to be something deep down that had made Fury wonder and made him take the time to fine tune him into this weapon.

It took Fury a couple of seconds to reply, but as he did, he leant forward and turned the pages in the file all the way to the mission brief. “This is why he's been so finely trained,” Fury's voice replied in an equally cool tone. This was not the time to be hostile to one another, but strangely Barney felt that it would have to come eventually.

Instead of replying, he read the mission brief. “ _Godofredo Blanco Méndez_ ,” was the name of the target. Barney knew the name, he'd seen it pass on Interpol's most wanted list a couple of times, but Russian names had always come on top and pushed him out of it. “ _Believed to be head of [CLASSIFIED], based in [CLASSIFIED]. Responsible for the gang shootout [CLASSIFIED] and [CLASSIFIED]._ ”

He didn't know much about what had been hidden behind the classified words, but it was enough to understand. He'd been working in the intelligence world long enough to know that anyone out of São Paulo and Brazil in connection to gangs, was typically some of the most dangerous individuals to take care of. Barney kept on reading.

“ _Currently held in Carandiru Penitentiary, São Paulo, Brazil, purging a sentence for [CLASSIFIED]. Status: RED. Elimination necessary._ ”

And, as much as Barney wanted to pretend to not understand how this man, this gang thug and apparently dangerous member of the Brazilian mafia, how he was connected to Clint – well, there was little to do but accept it.

“You're going to send Clint in and kill this guy? As his first mission?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know he'll make it back out alive? That prison is home to some of South America's most dangerous criminals. If you send in a kid like him there, he'll be more a target than anything he's ever been through before.” Barney knew how Americans were treated in the South – Brazil, Columbia, Mexico. All those countries hated the Americans that represented some sort of law enforcement because of their drug and gang network.

“Because,” Fury replied, as he put his finger down on a paragraph in the file, “Clint will go in as one of theirs.” Focusing on the writing, that hadn't been blacked out (yet), Barney's eyes grew wider and wider.

“ **Cover:** _Thom Heffernan, 21 year old American, caught in Brazil for smuggling, possession and attempted homicide. Second in command of fictional crime boss Kim O'Harold from New York. Will be prosecuted in Brazil and taken to Carandiru to purge his sentence._ ”

Barney huffed out a disagreeing sound. “They're never going to buy it. You can't just make up a crime boss and hope that they won't notice he's never existed until Clint mentions him,” he started, but Fury's large smile was what made him stop in his tracks. The Director allowed him a few seconds reprieve before he spoke.

“That's because Kim O'Harold has been trading with the Brazilian crime world for the past three months already. SHIELD has been carefully building up this fictional cover and keeping him completely anonymous, creating a network of handlers and sellers.” Fury leant back into his chair.

“You'd be amazed at the number of back alley sellers who will start whispering the name of a new drug lord if you feed them enough information”, he stated, and Barney frowned. This wasn't how they were supposed to investigate.

“You can't just make up a fake drug boss and start playing around with people like pieces on a chessboard? Those drug dealers you're taking in and feeding false information, you should help them or prosecute them, not let them roam freely. All those drugs they sell still go out into the wrong hands, and-”

Shaking his head, Fury lost his smile as he abruptly cut him off. “You'd be surprised at what your friends at Langley are doing right this instant,” he stated. “I believe even the FBI will find out what the CIA is meddling with soon enough, but unfortunately, that is still classified.”

The agent in Barney suddenly felt outrage – this was an intricate game that he couldn't possibly be a part of without including his handlers and his chief officers, but he still felt cheated. (The fact that Fury was even sharing this much information surprised him, but he knew it was because of Clint. The more Barney knew about what Clint was going to get into, the better.)

“What is Clint going to do until then? You're not going to send him in right away,” Barney muttered, as it slowly dawned upon him that there was nothing he could do to protect Clint anymore. He had agreed to become a member of SHIELD, and if this meant a) become a killer in the name of justice and b) risk his life in doing so, then it was no more than what he did himself.

“Clint is turning 21 in one week's time. That means he will be of legal age to decide whether or not to take this mission. If he agrees to it, which he probably will, he will go through several simulations that take place in the real world. We are going to guide him through the penitentiary system of the United States, by having him get prosecuted and thrown in for petty crimes. His cover, Thom Heffernan, already has a reputation but nobody has been able to catch him yet.”

Fury paused, and Barney took a deep breath. He didn't like this at all. It was like watching his little brother walk right back into the life of crime he had known before.

“He will be monitored at all times, and an extraction team will be available to break him out at any time. We have eyes and ears everywhere, Agent Barton,” Fury stated, but somehow, that was enough to keep Barney from worrying. His brother was barely 21 years old, and he was going to get thrown into systems he couldn't understand.

“We are not going to let him rot in a cell, I can promise you that. Clint will become an asset too precious to leave behind if he allows himself to bloom within SHIELD, and I can guarantee that he will do just that.”

Barney nodded, before closing the file on the table and handing it back to Fury.

* * *

“The physical tests,” the woman, who had been appointed as Barney's visitor guide through SHIELD, started, “will allow us to make sure that he is ready for any sort of situation he might get into while he trains for his upcoming mission.”

Nodding, as he walked behind her, Barney wondered if this was a good idea. Every instinct in him yelled to get Clint out, but this was the only way for Clint to get out clean. He wouldn't be able to hide forever – SHIELD had found them after he had killed people. If there was a way to purge this ledger, then... Maybe this was it.

But hell, he was just 21 years old. He was too young for this. Wasn't he? Any normal 21 year old American kid like him was just getting starting in on an adult life. But then again. Neither of them were regular kids.

Barney hadn't caught the lady's name.

“We're going to go down to the range, where he will be assessed by specialists in his accuracy, speed and hand-eye coordination.” She felt so cold, so bland. There were no emotions in her voice.

“He will never know you were here, and he will never see you. You're going to be behind a two way mirror, so he will know we're assessing him. But he won't know you're there.” There was some sort of sentiment there. Barney suspected it was the same defensive voice that Fury got when he talked about Clint, and he wondered who this woman was.

They reached the range in silence, and Barney slipped into the observation room behind other people wearing fancy suits. Just like him. They were all there to oversee Clint's progress, and Barney recognized Alexander Pierce himself, wearing a grey suit that just oozed wealth. He didn't like the man, he was like the chiefs at the FBI. There was another familiar head too, Brock Rumlow, who seemed to accompany Pierce wherever he went.

A young face, who must be Jessica Drew that he recognized from Clint's file, was there too, and some other SHIELD agents and specialists, ready to take notes. He didn't like it, he felt like he was going to watch his brother get butchered for the sake of their entertainment. Some sort of television show for the sadistic ones.

The lady who had escorted him shared a worried smile with him, and his eyes caught the name on her name tag, Laura Bishop. As in Derek Bishop? They exchanged a silent nod, and turned their attention to Clint on the other side of the mirror.

He had gained muscle, that was the first thing Barney noticed. He was no longer a scrawny, fragile little kid. His shoulders were broad now, broad and strong, from what he could see through the spandex shirt they had given him to wear. He had gained that muscle mass, and looked more ready to leap into action than he had ever been – sure Clint had been a scrawny and thin kid in the circus, able to bend different ways when he trained with the acrobats long enough, and he probably still could, but this...

Clint had become a weapon himself. The way he moved now, his entire posture was different: he stood up straight, holding his weight slightly better than before. Barney could see that Clint was aware of his centre of gravity at all times, and that his eyes were more aware of his surroundings than his laid back body language told.

There were traces of a scruff on his face, and a new scar marked his face. Was this a new development? Or would it disappear soon? Barney couldn't help but wonder what SHIELD and the US Army had done to or learnt his brother, but from what he could see, it had all been good things. If you looked at it that way, that is.

In the training range, there was a table with several weapons. There was a recurve bow, Barney's eyes had gone to it almost immediately, and there was a compound bow too. Compound took too long to get ready in a close combat situation, it would be too heavy as well. The compound was a weapon of patience and of long distance, a hunting weapon. He looked around at the other people present, and wondered if they had put the compound there on purpose. Was it to test and see if Clint would make the right call?

There was a longbow there too, and a crossbow. Clint had never liked the crossbow, too barbaric he called it. (Barney understood that as well. On a crossbow, you don't feel the string as it leaves your fingers. There isn't the vibrations of the string as it releases the arrow). A crossbow was a weapon for killers.

There were also some handguns on the table, a Walther PPK, Glock 19, a Remington rifle. Even knives, and Barney recognized some of DuQuesne's own knives – where had they gotten those from? Had Clint stolen them when he left the circus? Were they even Clint's? Or had they somehow gotten a hand on Jacques' knives another way?

All weapons to help Clint get through this training demonstration. A damp screen of sweat was pearling on Barney's brow – he was focused on Clint, and was getting worried for him. He'd read Clint's brief, he knew what he was going to get into. Did Clint know, yet? Had he even read the mission brief properly? Understood all the different levels of danger he would be getting into? Or would he follow the words blindly, putting his faith in SHIELD to get him out of danger?

That's when the first door opened and revealed a SHIELD agent wearing a black tac suit. Clint immediately lept onto his toes, and went for one of the thinner knives, grabbing it by the handle and throwing it at the agent. It embedded itself in the agent's thigh, and during the time it took the attacker to regain his step, Clint had nocked an arrow onto the longbow and pulled back, ready to release. He only aimed for what felt like half a second – shooting with a longbow is mostly intuitive shooting, there's too much draw weight, you can't hold it as long as a recurve – and the loud thud that the arrow made when connecting with the agent's chest demonstrated the power of the longbow.

Immediately, the agent fell down and two more came in from opposite sides, and as Barney watched, Clint didn't even seem to stress from the situation. He climbed onto the table holding all the weapons to gain some height, before kicking up two more knives with a neat kick of his heel on the handle, and threw both knives in opposite directions before repeating the kicking with one of the guns, and aiming at the agents' heads.

However, this time, they had weapons of their own, and before he could make the debilitating shot, Clint had to jump off the table to avoid three consecutive shots coming from the opponent on the right. He jumped backwards, pushing off his toes like they did when they were high on the tightrope, and throwing his body weight back, using his legs as swings to gain momentum, he aimed at the first agent, took the shot, and then promptly swung his leg to the side, twisting himself so as to have his feet hit the other agent in the head, knocking him out immediately.

The second agent fell to his knees with the gunshot wound, and Clint landed on his feet, gracefully, like a cat. He'd learnt that from the Graysons, no doubt.

Before any more agents stormed the room, Clint proceeded to retrieve the knives he'd throw, as well as the one arrow. A fourth agent entered the room from above, and from what Barney saw, Clint used a sleight of hands to hide one of the smaller knives in his sleeve, appearing relatively unarmed as he approached the agent, still coming down with just a 6 inch knife. He swung it at the agent, who took out a gun with tranquilizing darts in it.

Barney had to give it to him, this was good training for Clint, and so far, he had made no mistakes. He wondered if the rest of the panel had even noticed Clint had his a knife on himself, or if they hadn't. It was like card tricks. And other sorts of magicians' tricks. Did they see? Or will they only see when Clint reveals the Prestige to them?

The gun got knocked out of the agents' hand with a punch to the elbow and the loud crack that resulted made the lady – no, Laura – next to Barney cringe. That's when Clint pulled out the small knife and made a cut on the agent's neckline, where he would cut had this been a real fight.

The agent fell down and played dead like all his other colleagues, and Clint stood there, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He had barely broken a sweat, and for all Barney knew, the training was over.

That's when Pierce moved slightly to the side, and the same instant that happened, five doors opened, revealing five agents in each of them. Jessica Drew had stood up as well, moved to the back. She was hiding her mouth behind her hand, a typical sign of worry and stress. Barney barely moved. He'd learnt to keep a straight pokerface a long time ago.

Clint didn't say anything. He just moved towards the table before turning around, swinging his leg up and kicking the first assailant in the jaw, grabbing one of the knives he'd just laid out on the table, throwing it at the furthest assailant. The three others were closing in, and the first actual hit on Clint was thrown by the one furthest back, a solid punch to the back, which made Clint lose all his breath.

He dropped to one knee, and as it happened, Barney's attention turned to Pierce who showed absolutely no emotion. This was the final test. Would Clint be good enough? He knew Jessica Drew, right here, right next to him, could take them out with a blast of energy. He knew that Brock Rumlow was as good as the head of Pierce's own personal team had to be. Would Clint be good enough?

Resting on his knee, taking the punches thrown at his shoulders, his back, his head, Clint took it all. He'd had worse. He'd fallen down a tightrope and survived. He'd gotten hit in the head by his father so that his hearing disappeared for a while, and survived. He'd been shot with an arrow, and survived. A couple of punches weren't going to take him.

And, as Barney thought, Clint suddenly pushed himself up and grabbed a handful of arrows – five? Six? He couldn't count, Clint was moving too fast – and instead of using one of the weapons made to handle the arrows (any of the bows), he used them as spears or knives. He embedded one of the arrows into the calf of one of his assailants before hitting him in the face with the other end of the arrow, let go of it, used two others to maim the second attacker, and when he dropped the last arrow to face the last one of them... he smiled.

He actually took the time to smile, before he unfolded his fingers and revealed two of the smaller knives, hidden somewhere on his body, that they hadn't seen. He threw them at the last attacker, and they embedded themselves perfectly, right between the ribs.

Barney hadn't noticed when Clint had taken those knives. By the sound of the people around him, they hadn't either. Jessica was smiling, Laura was beaming, and Alexander Pierce looked as stern as ever. Was it a glimt of something in his eyes, though? Barney observed him as the head of SHIELD left the observation room.

The lights flickered in the training room, and doors opened to agents who were supposed to help clean up Clint's mess. There was blood, of course, but it had mostly been a training exercise and none of them were in direct mortal danger.

“So,” Laura stated, as Barney watched them pull arrows, knives and bullets from protective foam on their suits, as Clint looked at the mirror.

Barney almost felt like Clint saw him, but it was more one of those 'I dare you fail me' looks that he knew Clint had learnt from him.

“So what?” Barney asked, and Laura arched her eyebrow. Jessica came closer, a smile on her face.

“You're Clint's big brother, right?” Jessica asked, extending her hand to him. “Pleased to meet you.”

Shaking her hand, trying to ignore Clint who was gathering the arrows and putting them neatly in place, he smiled. “Barney Barton, pleased to meet you too.”

And that's when he saw the red streak on Clint's suit. It was on his back, soaking the suit in a spot where a knife had cut it open, exposing the cut itself and the skin. Laura's eyes followed, and Jessica's soon too.

“I'll be right back,” Laura exclaimed, leaving Jessica and Barney together as she moved into the training room, to take care of Clint, Barney saw. She went straight to him, and guided him to an exit door. Barney wouldn't see Clint for a long while, he knew.

“Clint's a good kid. He misses you,” Jessica said, a nostalgic smile on her lips.

“Wouldn't you know,” Barney muttered, as he turned his back and exited the observation room, heading straight for the exit. He didn't want to see any more of this. This was beyond his comprehension.

But most of all, he was afraid. Afraid of what Clint was going to become, and if he would be good enough for what Fury had in mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? So? So?  
> Did you like it? Please, please, please, let me know! What was your favorite part? A part you didn't like at all?   
> Anything you're excited for?
> 
> It's soon going to get a bit more fun, because Clint's first mission is going to happen, and from there, lots of more interesting things to happen... You guys better be ready, because this fic is going to be a ride!


	12. Clint Barton – January 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he gets sent on his first mission, Clint must first learn tips and tricks from the spying trade. Some fears, however, are more hard than others to get rid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bridge chapter. It's been sitting on my laptop for a while, where I hoped I would be able to write more of it, but I guess this'll be it. I haven't updated in forever, so I apologize very much for the time this has taken.  
> It's a little bit different than the usual pace the chapters have, but I wanted to try something else. I hope you enjoy it!

A wise man once said that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. That a brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

Looking down at the depth beneath him, Clint wondered if he would ever be able to conquer this fear. He could feel it, burning up under his skin, crawling all the way out to his fingertips. It was there, keeping steady, making his heart beat like a drum, faster, faster, _fasterfasterfaster_ -

He looked down again, and watched the turquoise waters of the pool beneath him. If it had just been the water, then he would have tried. He would have tried – he was afraid of water. He had always been afraid of water, ever since his shitty ass dad had tried to drown him in the bathtub once.

A jerk went through his spine and he almost lost his footing on the slippery diving board, catching himself on the railing. He had barely reached the highest of the boards before all color had drained from his face. He didn't want to do this.

As he closed his eyes, he remembered the smell of alcohol on his father's face, that night. He'd thrown Clint into the bathtub, and started the water. He could still hear his mother crying at him to stop, to leave Clint out of it. He could still hear Barney howling for help too, crying, yelling. But his father had caught Clint by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up into the tub, pushing his mom away.

Pushing his brother away.

The taste of the water on his tongue. The smell of the open shampoo bottles that fell over. He could remember it all, and Clint felt his fingers tighten around the railing. He didn't want to.

Not from this high up.

Opening his eyes again, he watched the others. Down there. On the ground. He could see them all – so clearly. Coulson, Jessica, Laura, May, Brock. They were all looking at him.

Jessica was carrying a towel around her waist, as she had just made the jump into the cold waters. It was a test. Go in there fully clothed. A bit like airline personel tests, they'd told him. And he'd said that it was fine. It was a field test. He knew that.

He knew that.

The taste of the water in the back of his throat made his wince and he took as step back on the board, almost missing the edge of it- almost loosing his balance. He looked up towards the ceiling.

But that wasn't just it, was it? He'd tried to go into the water like this too. There were so many things going on in his head right now, oh my god _ohmygodwhatishappening_ -

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, taking the railing with both his hands.

Silence fell around him. Breathing out, he counted the seconds. Another smell filled his memory, another smell entombed him in memories, and when he opened his eyes after he reached the count of ten, it wasn't the pool he saw anymore. It was the circus sand, down there. So far down.

He could smell the stench of the elephants and the big cats, he could smell the sweat of the last audience members who had left not too long before. A sound rang in his left ear and his head jerked to the side, as he raised his eyes from the ground. He wasn't on a diving board anymore.

He was on a tightrope. He could feel the sweat start to slowly makes it way down his back, pulled down by the force of gravity, just like he would be drawn downwards in just a couple of seconds. He didn't want to. No, not again.

_No, Jacques- don't do it. Don't cut the rope._

Closing his eyes again, Clint tried to hang onto the railing as he heard the sound of a knife slicing a rope.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he was falling. He could feel the air around him, he could see the ceiling of the pool moving too fast from him. He could hear a scream, whose voice was it? Mom? Was it his mom? He tried to turn his head, but the time slowed and he could only feel that his body was preparing for the impact.

He braced himself and took a deep breath.

That's when he hit the surface of the water.

That last breath of air he'd sucked in was pushed out of his lungs immediately. He felt like he'd hit a floor of concrete and felt some of his bones crack. His eyes flung open, and with the last moments of fluttering panic dispersing around his body with the adrenaline kicking in, he saw the blue lights through the water of the pool.

It tasted like salt.

And that's when the water entombed him completely. He saw flickers of light, as his body tried to reach out, to get up there again, to use his legs, kicking the water, but nothing was responding. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what was going on – kick the water, swim, up and up, it's just the height, you're down again now, don't worry you can do this.

But nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? He was trapped in this underwater grave and there was nothing he could do to get out – he lost control of his reflexes and inhaled, the salted water burning through his nose and down into his lungs as he tried to regain some sort of composure.

Kicking the water again, he turned himself around and instead of facing upwards, he faced downwards, and as he opened his eyes, trying to cough out the water, he saw the laughing faces of his father and his mentor, pointing at him, reaching out for him, pulling him down-

Something kicked him in the chest and he felt the air leave his body, as water took its place, and then there were bubbles everywhere around him, the current suddenly created by shapes in the pool pushing him to every side, making him panic further until-

Peace. The soothing feeling of oxygen filling his lungs again, until his heart started beating again, until he felt the choking feel of the water in his lungs, and he realized, he wasn't out of the water yet, why was his brain telling his body to breathe, why oh god no, I don't want to die, _pleasegetmeoutofthisplace_

* * *

“Clint?”

Blackness. The voice dimmed by some effect. There was water in his ears, that wasn't good, his inner ear- if water gets in his inner ear, no.

“Clint, can you hear me?”

The voice was stronger now, and he knew that he would be okay. He knew that voice. He knew her. He almost forgot about the water in his ear as she spoke again. He knew that voice. It'd been years since he heard it.

“Clint, please. Open your eyes.”

So many years since he'd heard her voice.

“Mom?”

There was a slight chuckle, and Clint felt his face frowning on reflex – no, why was she chuckling? Did he say something wrong?

“Clint, open your eyes,” the voice said again, and so he did. He forced his eyes open, his throat burning with the familiar sensation of having thrown up after being sick.

The lights blinded him at first, but soon, some hands were on his cheeks, helping him focus, helping him come back down to Earth – but they didn't belong to his mother. She was dead.

Had been for years.

“Jessica?”

Why was she so close to him?

“Alright, give him some space,” he heard another voice say, and when he finally took the time to focus on the space around him, he noticed that he was on the edge of the training pool. Several SHIELD medics were kneeling next to him, and he noticed one of them had a defibrillator in his hands, was putting it away. Wha- what?

“What happened?” he managed to push out, and Jessica looked up at Brock and Laura who looked more distraught than he'd ever seen them.

“You passed out,” Coulson's voice broke, and Clint frowned. They wouldn't have needed to shock him if he'd just passed out, would they?

As he took a deep breath to focus himself, to steady himself again, trying to push himself up to a sitting position, he felt some hands on his shoulders, forcing him down onto the floor again, just as his breath caught, and he felt his diaphragm contract, throwing him into a coughing fit.

It felt like his lungs were on fire, and that every breath he took turned into a fiery ball waiting to be spit out again. He felt the cold tiles of the floor against the back of his head, he felt hands on his shoulders, holding him steady, and another pair of hands pushing against his collarbones to push him onto the side, so that he could spit out any remnants of water his lungs had decided to claim as their own.

“Keep him steady,” some male voice filtered through as his body finally gave up, letting all the fear and the fight flow out of him. Breathing's just a rhythm, he thought to himself, as he tried to compose himself.

He could still feel the pain in every bone in his body, he could still feel the hurt from where his bones had broken – he probably cracked some vertebraes, but he didn't care. All the pain going through his body now? That was all an echo to that same fall he had taken, all those years ago, when his former mentor Jacques DuQuesne had decided to cut the tightrope under his feet.

As his memories turned into a maelstrom of thoughts, Clint vomited again, feeling some cold hands holding his head steady.

“What the hell happened?” Melinda May's voice called, and he almost managed to crack a smile. Had you all fooled, he wanted to yell, but then another impulse had him heaving for air again.

“He's- he's, he fell down the diving board,” another voice said, he recognized that as Laura's voice.

“How the hell did he fall down that board?”

“He passed out. Or at least we think he passed out.”

Silence followed that. Had he? Passed out? He wasn't even sure himself. He couldn't remember what had happened – it always ended up that way, when he came up high. To a vantage point. Seeing better from a distance, he liked that, but he hated it because he was so scarred from the fall that DuQuesne had caused.

He feared heights.

It was this primal, necessary fear that kept him alive when he went up several stories in a building, and kept him from going on any amusement park rides. (Not that he ever did anyway). He couldn't stand being up, not somewhere where he could risk falling down. If he trusted the building and the ground, the floor and the windows, he didn't care. But a diving board, for example, he couldn't handle.

And then there was the water.

He could swim. Or so he thought he could. Had the fear been immobilizing him, in the pool? Was that why he hadn't been able to get out of the water? He had no idea.

Breathe in, breathe out. Again. Repeat. A steady rhythm to bring him back to his senses, as he pushed, slowly, with his hands, to sit upright again. Jessica and Laura were holding him steady. He saw Brock's face through the haze he had been hiding behind for the past couple of minutes, and shot the bastard a dirty look.

He then tasted blood, and, instead of panicking, just slowly lifted one hand to set it under his nose, on his upper lip. Nosebleed.

Hit to the back of the head.

He'd hit that water from the back, and he knew that if you hit water hard enough, the surface was strong enough to kill you. Learnt that through the television shows he'd seen before – why some planes disintegrated when they crashlanded on water.

Watching Laura's face, shifting to Jessica's face, he winced as he realized the bones in his back were hurting.

The light around them seemed to fade, slowly, and then all at once, and the last thing he remembers was the hushed voices of the other agents around him.

* * *

“We've got to do something about it.”

Laura's voice. Arguing. With who?

“What? You saw the footage yourself!” And that was Brock. Frustrated, it would seem.

“He can get over it!” Jessica's voice.

There was too many things going on, and Clint tried to move his head to let the voices hush again, but sadly, the movement suddenly quieted the voices.

“He's awake.” Well, thanks for the brand new information, Laura. He wanted to say something back, but he could only feel his numb tongue in his mouth, and he tried prying his eyes open, but they didn't want to.

Maybe now wasn't the time.

“Can you hear me?” Brock's voice broke through, and he managed to nod his head slightly, fearing what the other agent would give him.

“Listen, Barton. Pierce isn't happy with this development-”

“Rumlow, not now!”

“Yes, now! Pierce is pretty fucking angry at you for hiding this for so long.” Was he growling? Clint sort of heard his voice as a growl. Was it a bad thing, though? That he'd managed to hide the fear of water and heights for so long?

Maybe it wasn't.

“He compromised the entire mission!”

There was anger in the voice, but he didn't want to listen to it right now. He just kept his eyes closed, hoping they would move away.

There was a sort of ruffling, and soon, muffled voices continued the argument, but he deduced that it was happening on the other side of the door to his room. The quietness soon followed, and he fell back into his dreams, wondering whether he was good enough for this new adventure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, and I'm sorry for that. I'll try to update it again very soon, since, as I've said before, I've got it all planned out, I just need to sit down and write. (But that's a bit hard right now, since IRL is a bit messy). You can always come knock on my tumblr @spectralarchers.
> 
> But, please do comment and tell me what you thought! Comments and asks about this fic reminds me that it exists and that I have to keep writing it. I promise, I won't abandon it, it might just take a bit longer for me between updates. I'm sorry. I hope you're still excited for it.


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